LIBRARY 

OF    THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 
PS  3/57 


V 


..  SOME  .. 


HOMELY  LITTLE  SONGS 


JAMES  WATERHOUSE 


\  P  R  A  ^7%. 
or  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


SAN  FRANCISCO 

THE  WHITAKER  &  RAY  CO. 

(INCORPORATED) 

1899 


Copyright,  1899 

..    BY  .. 

ALFRED  JAMES  WATERHOXJSE 


To  one  whose  love  has  never  varied — my  mother — this 
book  of  Homely  Little  Songs  is  dedicated. 


INDEX. 


When  Baby  Prays 9 

Bunner  of  'Frisco 11 

He  Drifted 13 

Now,  Why  Was  This  ? 15 

When  the  Baby  Died 17 

/     Nighttime  in  California 19 

O'er  the  Sea  of  Dreams 23 

When  I  Went  Out  A-Harvesting 24 

Arcady 27 

Lo,  I  Am  the  Changeless 29 

When  Pa  Firs'  Et  Tabasco  Sauce 31 

When  Uncle  Jabez  Come 34 

"  I  Plead  Thy  Love  " 37 

How  the  Flowers  Grow 38 

Hey  There,  Little  Girls 40 

The  Teacher  Knows 43 

Swing  Low,  Stars. 45 

WhenMother  Called 47 

Two  Prayers 49 

Save  Your  Letters 52 

It's  Christmas  Time 54 

"HisLife  A  Failure" 56 

'Tis  the  Secret  of  Youth 58 

Jim  Was  Peculiar 60 

Deuce  Take  Philosophy ! 62 

Out  in  the  Mountains. 64 

My  Little  Mother's  Prayer 67 


INDEX. 


As  the  Years  Go  By 70 

My  Daughter's  Priscilla 72 

At  the  Bottom  of  the  Sea 74 

Little  White  Sister..... 77 

The  Schoolgirl  Tbat  I  Hated 81 

If  Dreams  Were  Gold 85 

When  the  Stars  Sleep 87 

In  the  City,  the  City 89 

City  and  Country  Ways 91 

The  Olden  Days,  The  Golden  Days 94 

To  the  Pioneers  that  Remain 97 

A  Little,  Little  Fellow 99 

Who  Knew  This  Man  ? 102 

The  Boys  of  the  Country  Press 104 

We  Shall  Rest  Sweetly 106 

I  Judged  He  Was  Right 108 

A  Song  for  the  Little  Chaps 110 

We  Weary  of  it  All 112 

A  Lullaby 114 

It  is  Well  to  Remember 116 

Waiting  for  Santa  Glaus 117 

As  I  Would  Believe 120 

As  I  Lie  Here  and  Dream 122 

A  Song  for  the  Under  Dog 124 

What  is  the  Dream  in  my  Baby's  Eyes  ? 127 

My  Grandsire's  ' '  Let  Us  Pray  " 129 

When  Wheat  is  Worth  a  Dollar 133 

The  Land  Where  Our  Dreams  Come  True 136 

Here's  to  the  Man  Who  Rises  Again 138 

Her  Faith  Never  Falters 140 

When  I  Go  Out  on  My  Wheel 142 


INDEX. 


A  Song  for  the  Rank  and  File 144 

Hushaby,  Lullaby , 147 

In  Our  Land  of  California 149 

Reach  Down  from  Your  Heaven 152 

The  Poor  Little  Birdies 154 

The  Brook  That  Ran  Down  to  the  Mill 156 

As  We  Jog  On  Together 158 

"My  Brother  11  Be  All  Right" 160 

Knee-deep  in  Clover 164 

Tenderly  Take  and  Hold  Them 166 

When  the  Old  Man  Dreamed 168 

"  I'm  Praying  for  You  " 173 

The  Old,  Old  Song 175 


/      ^  OF  THE" 
(    UNIVERSITY 

x,^ 

Some  "foomel?  TLlttte  Songe, 


WHEN  BABY  PRAYS. 

11  THEN  baby  by  her  crib  at  night 

Enfolds  her  little  hands  to  pray — 
Dear  little  hands  so  soft  and  white, — 
I  listen  while  the  sweet  lips  say: 
"  Now  I  'ay  me  down  to  s'eep, 
I  p'ay  the  Lord  my  soul  to  teep;" 
And,  listening,  years  are  backward  rolled; 
The  past  is  as  a  tale  untold. 

And,  standing  by  my  mother  mild — 

Dear  mother,  with  your  hair  of  white — 
Again  I  am  a  little  child,  y, 

And  say  again,  as  y ester  night: 
"  If  I  s'ould  die  before  I  wate, 
I  pa'y  the  Lord  my  soul  to  tate;" 
And  half  it  seems  in  baby's  plea 
The  olden  faith  comes  back  to  me. 


10  WHEN  BABY  PRAYS. 

Ah  me!  I  know  my  faith  is  but 

A  phantom  of  the  long  ago; 
Yet,  when  my  babe,  with  eyelids  shut, 
Repeats  the  words  I  used  to  know: 
"  Now  I  'ay  me  down  to  s'eep, 
I  p'ay  the  Lord  my  soul  to  teep," 
Someway,  someway,  the  world-doubts  flee; 
The  old,  sweet  faith  comes  back  to  me. 

It  comes  again,  the  old,  sweet  faith; 

It  is  my  own,  it  is  my  own, 
And  doubt  has  fled,  the  gloomy  wraith, 
Before  a  baby's  words  alone: 

"  If  I  s'ould  die  before  I  wate, 
I  p'ay  the  Lord  my  soul  to  tate." 
So,  for  a  baby's  lisping  plea, 
My  thanks,  dear  Lord,  my  thanks  to  Thee. 


BUNKER    OF  'FRISCO.  II 


BUNNER  OF  'FRISCO. 

T3UNNER  of  'Frisco— knew  him  well; 
•*-^  Queer  little  chap  as  ever  you  met; 
Always  insistin'  that  war  was  hell — 

"  Regular  Hades  it  is,  you  bet" 
When  there  resounded  the  call  "  To  Arms  !  " 

Bunner  of  'Frisco  was  first  to  go; 
Sailed  to  the  field  of  death  and  alarms, 

Always  remarking  "  It's  hell,  you  know." 

Bunner  of  'Frisco — once  a  squad 

Got  where  the  "  gugus  "  were  fifty  to  one. 
Wholly  surrounded,  their  summons  to  God 

Came  with  each  crack  of  a  savage's  gun. 
"  Boys,"  said  the  sergeant,  "  one,  you  know, 

Must  go  to  the  captain  our  case  to  tell. 
Probably  death  for  him — who  will  go?" 

"  I  will,"  says  Bunner,  "  but  war  is  hell." 

Bunner  of  'Frisco — up  the  hill, 
While  demons  yelled,  and  over  its  crest; 

And  the  bullets  sung,  and  their  song  was  shrill- 
Now,  Bunner  of  'Frisco,  now  do  your  best! 


12  BUNNER    OF  'FRISCO. 

He  did  it,  by  Heaven  !     On  and  on, 
Into  the  river  where  missiles  hailed; 

Wounded  and  staggering,  growing  wan, 
Never  a  moment  he  halted  or  quailed. 

Bunner  of  'Frisco — into  the  camp, 

Gory  and  dying,  he  staggered,  they  say, 
Wiped  from  his  forehead  the  ultimate  damp, 

Delivered  his  message  and  fainted  away. 
He    spoke    once    again :      "  The    boys    will    be 
saved  " — 

Slowly  the  words  from  his  ashen  lips  fell; 
Turned  his  dim  eyes  to  where  the  flag  waved — 

"  The  boys  will  be  saved,  but — war — war  is — 
hell." 


Bunner  of  'Frisco,  I  don't  know 

Whither  you  journey,  or  where  you  drift, 
Past  where  the  life-tides  ebb  and  flow, 

There  where  the  waves  of  Eternity  shift; 
But  one  thing  I  know,  or  I  think  I  do, 

You  followed  your  duty  through  pain  and  woe, 
And  I  judge,  in  the  place  that  was  kept  for  you, 

You  never  will  murmur,  "  It's  hell,  you  know." 


HE   DRIFTED.  13 


HE  DRIFTED. 

T  T  E  drifted  along  on  the  river  of  life — 

Just  drifted 

When  the  current  grew  sullen,  and  weary  the 
strife, 

He  shifted. 

He  would  sit  on  a  box  in  the  glint  o'  the  sun 
An'  whittle  up  sticks  around,  one  after  one. 
With  plenty  to  do  an'  with  little  yet  done, 

He  drifted. 

With  a  talent  for  restin'  this  ease-takin'  man 

Was  gifted, 

Though  he'd  fish  from  a  bank  where  a  slow  river 
ran, 

Or  shifted. 
For  he  said  that  to  labor  was  too  much  like 

work, 

An'  he  guessed  he  could  live  and  the  hard  strug- 
gles shirk, 

An'  he  'lowed  that  old  Fortune's  best  smile  is  a 
smirk — 

So  he  drifted. 


14  HE   DRIFTED. 


When  the  messenger  came  and  beckoned  him  on 

He  drifted 

Through  the  door  in  the  mist  which  the  death 
angel  wan 

Uplifted; 

An'  if  he  reached  Heaven  I'm  here  to  suggest 
In  the  shade  of  the  throne  he  is  takin'  a  rest, 
An'    wonderin'    if    harp-bangin'    can't    be    sup- 
pressed 

Where  he's  drifted. 


NOW,    WHY    WAS   THISf  15 


NOW,  WHY  WAS  THIS? 

\\7  HEN  the  baby  came  he  was  homely  as  sin, 
*  *     With  a  very  bald  pate  and  a  very  weak 

chin, 

With  gums  that  were  toothless  and  watery  eyes, 
A  nose  like  a  blur  and  a  talent  for  cries; 
And   the   women   all   said   as   he   wriggled   and 

scowled 
And   puckered   and   twisted   and   bellowed   and 

howled — 

They  said  as  they  viewed  him  with  critical  eye: 
"  He's  just  like  his  father.     Now,  isn't  he?     My! 

Why-y-y! 
You  can  see  the  resemblance  with  half  of  an  eye." 

As  the  baby  grew  he  was  ugly  some  days, 
With  a  strong  inclination  a  hubbub  to  raise; 
That  his  temper  was  grievous  was  plain  to  be 

seen, 
And  with  squalling  and  bawling  he  kept  himself 

lean. 


1 6  NOW,    WHY    WAS    THIS? 

He    howled   till    his    mouth    wore    a   permanent 

twist, 

And  the  pleasure  of  living  he  constantly  missed; 
And  when  he  yelled  loudest  the  women  would 

cry: 
"  He  favors  his  father.     Now,  doesn't  he?     My! 

Why-y-y! 
You  can  see  the  resemblance  with  half  of  an  eye." 

But  a  change  was  seen  as  the  baby  grew, 
For  his  looks  improved  and  his  temper,  too, 
And  his  smiles  chased  the  frowns  and  the  scowls 

away, 

And  the  sunbeams  loved  in  his  dimples  to  play; 
And  I  thought  him  sweet,  in  my  fatherly  pride, 
As  he  toddled  along  on  the  floor  at  my  side; 
And  then  all  the  women  who  saw  him  would  cry: 
"  He's  just  like  his  mother.     Now,  isn't  he?  My! 

Why-y-y! 
You  can  see  the  resemblance  with  half  of  an  eye." 


WHEN   THE   BABY  DIED.  17 


WHEN  THE  BABY  DIED. 

T  17  HEN  the  baby  died,  so  fair  was  she— 

*  *    Like  a  lily  an  angel  had  dropped  for  me — 
That  I  said  to  myself:     "  She  is  only  asleep," 
And   I   wondered   that   others   would   over   her 

weep; 

And  I  stooped  and  kissed  her,  half  dreaming  she 
Would  open  her  blue  eyes  unto  me, 
And  laugh  again  as  on  yesterday, 
And  dimple  and  croon  in  the  dear  old  way — 
When  the  baby  died. 

When  the  baby  died  I  could  not  weep, 
And  I  said:    "  She  is  only  asleep — asleep. 
She  will  wake  ere  long  and  I  shall  hear 
The  prattle  I  love  beat  on  my  ear." 
And  I  smoothed  all  gently  the  golden  hair, 
And  I  would  not  believe  she  was  otherwhere 
As  I  cried,  "  My  darling,  look  up  and  see!" 
But  only  the  night  wind  answered  me — 
When  the  baby  died. 


18  WHEN   THE  BABY  DIED. 

When  the  baby  died — sometimes  I  start 
From  a  dream  at  night  with  a  longing  heart, 
For  I  fancy  I  hear  through  the  silence  wide 
A  prattle  of  words  from  the  babe  that  died. 
Then  my  hands  fall  down,  though  they  empty  be, 
For  I  know  that  my  darling  has  gone  from  me, 
And  the  night  creeps  into  a  somber  day, 
While    my    heart    cries    out:     "  Come    back,    I 
pray"— 

Since  the  baby  died. 


NIGHTTIME   IN   CALIFORNIA.  19 


NIGHTTIME   IN    CALIFORNIA. 


IGHTTIME  in  California.    There's    noth- 


N 

*  ^  ing  like  it  found, 


Though  to  and  fro  you  come  and  go  and  journey 

earth  around. 
The  skies  are  like  a  crystal  sea,  with  islands  made 

of  stars; 
The  moon's  a  fairy  ship   that   sails  among   its 

shoals  and  bars; 
And   on  that  sea  I   sit  and  look,   and  wonder 

where  it  ends; 
If  I  shall  sail  its  phantom  wave,  and  where  the 

journey  tends, 

And  if — in  vain  I  wonder;  let's  change  the  sol- 
emn theme, 
For  the  nights  of  California  were  made  for  man 

to  dream. 


20  NIGHTTIME   IN   CALIFORNIA. 


Nighttime  in  California.  The  cricket's  note  is 
heard, 

And  now,  perhaps,  the  twitter  of  a  drowsy, 
dreaming  bird. 

An  oar  is  plashing  yonder;  the  wakeful  frogs  re- 
ply. 

The  breeze  is  chanting  in  the  trees  a  ghostly  lull- 
aby. 

The  moon  has  touched  with  silver  the  peaceful, 
sleeping  world, 

And  in  the  weary  soul  of  man  the  flag  of  sor- 
row's furled. 

'Tis  a  time  for  smiles  and  music;  'tis  a  time  for 
love  divine, 

For  the  nights  of  California  are  Heav'n  this  side 
the  line. 


NIGHTTIME   IN   CALIFORNIA.  21 


Nighttime  in  California.  Elsewhere  men  only 
guess 

At  the  glory  of  the  evenings  that  are  perfect — 
nothing  less; 

But  here  the  nights,  returning,  are  the  wondrous 
gifts  of  God — 

As  if  the  days  were  maidens  fair  with  golden  slip- 
pers shod. 

There  is  no  cloud  to  hide  the  sky;  the  universe  is 
ours, 

And  the  starlight  likes  to  look  and  laugh  in  Cu- 
pid-haunted bowers. 

Oh,  the  restful,  peaceful  evenings!  In  them  my 
soul  delights, 

For  God  loved  California  when  He  gave  to  her 
her  nights. 


22  O'ER    THE   SEA    OF  DREAMS. 


O'ER  THE  SEA  OF  DREAMS. 

R  the  sea  of  dreams  to  the  sweet  Dream- 

land— 

Oh,  little  my  love,  come  hither,  I  pray, 
And  place  in  my  own  your  wee  white  hand 

And  we  will  go  sailing  away,  away, 
Down  a  path  of  gold  by  the  Isles  of  Rest, 
O'er  the  slumbrous   depths   of  the   Sundown 

Sea, 

To  the  land  of  lands  that  we  love  the  best, 
Where  dream  angels  whisper  to  you  and  to  me. 

O'er  the  sea  of  dreams — oh,  little  my  love, 

Closer  yet  creep  to  this  heart  of  mine, 
While  lowly  the  dream  angels  hover  above 

And  there  in  God's  meadows  the  star-blossoms 

shine. 
Under  your  eyelids  the  visions  shall  creep. 

Little  one,  little  one,  what  shall  they  be? 
Something  to  cause  you  to  smile  in  your  sleep, 

Nestling  yet  closer  and  closer  to  me. 


O'ER    THE   SEA    OF  DREAMS. 


O'er  the  sea  of  dreams  to  the  sweet  Dreamland  — 

Oh,  little  my  love,  what  dreams  they  must  be, 
Such  dreams  as  a  baby  may  understand, 

Queer  little  fancies,  as  all  must  agree, 
Little  half  notions,  or  foolish  or  wise, 

Wee  floating  fragments  of  babyhood  lore; 
These  are  your  dreams,  as  I  sagely  surmise  — 

Heigh-ho,  my  little  one,  what  are  mine  more? 

O'er  the  sea  of  dreams;  and  who's  at  the  helm, 

Oh,  little  my  love,  nor  you  nor  I 
May  wisely  tell,  for  the  sleep  king's  realm 

Is  hidden  by  mists  from  the  passers-by. 
It  is  hidden  by  mists,  yet  myself  I  tell, 

While  your  eyelids  flutter  like  petals  of  white: 
The  One  who  is  guiding  will  guide  her  well  — 

So,  little  my  love,  good  night,  good  night. 


24         WHEN  I  WENT  OUT  A-HARVESTING. 


WHEN  I  WENT  OUT  A-HARVESTING. 

T  T'S  well  enough  to  talk  about  the  joys  the 

farmers  know — 
Perhaps  'twill  sort  of  brace  them  up  to  grapple 

with  their  woe; 
It's  well  to  sing  a  paean  to  the  sturdy  sons  of 

toil 
Who  labor  'neath  a  summer  sun  and  boil  and 

broil  and  boil; 
But  you'll  kindly  please  to  notice  I'm  not  joining 

in  the  strain, 
For    my   farming   recollections   bring '  to    me   a 

sense  of  pain, 
And  the  horny-handed  granger's  life  to  me  is 

lacking  charm 

Since  I  went  out  a-harvesting  on  Deacon  Big- 
gins' farm. 


WHEN  I    WENT  OUT  A-HARVESTING-       25 

I  was  young  and  somewhat  hopeful,  and  the  dea- 
con said  he'd  pay 

A  dollar  for  my  services  on  any  blessed  day. 

So  I  went  to  labor  for  him.  The  recollection 
still 

Of  what  ensued  is  haunting  me;  I  judge  it  ever 
will 

For  when  the  deacon  called  me  in  the  morn  at 
half  past  three 

To  rustle  out  and  do  the  chores,  it  was  a  shock 
to  me; 

And  I  longed  to  kill  the  cattle  or  to  do  them 
other  harm, 

When  I  went  out  a-harvesting  on  Deacon  Big- 
gins' farm. 

At  half  past  five  was  breakfast,  and  then  came 

family  prayers. 
I  still  recall  the  good  man's  words,  'mid  all  life's 

cumbering  cares: 
"  We  praise  Thee,   Lord,"   he  murmured,   "  for 

Thy  mercy's  constant  streams — 
Now,  boys,  get  out  and  hustle  till  you've  hitched 

up  all  the  teams." 


26         WHEN  I   WENT  OUT  A-H ARRESTING. 

And  we  got  out  and  hustled,  and  the  words  we 
bandied  there, 

While  hitching  up  the  weary  teams,  were  not  the 
words  of  prayer, 

For  we  judged  the  deacon's  righteousness  would 
keep  us  from  all  harm, 

When  I  went  out  a-harvesting  on  Deacon  Big- 
gins' farm. 

Oh,  days  of  weary  labor  by  an  awful  hotness  hit! 

Did  I  enjoy  a  farmer's  bliss?  Well,  I  am  doubt- 
ing it. 

From  half  past  three  of  mornings  till  ten  o'clock 
of  nights, 

We  toiled  and  broiled  and  broiled  and  toiled  and 
knew  the  farm's  delights; 

And  still  at  times  I  hear  these  words  and  wake 
from  restless  dreams: 

"  We  praise  Thee  for  Thy  mercy  and — now  hus- 
tle out  the  teams." 

And  so  I  am  not  singing  in  praise  of  farming's 
charm, 

Since  I  went  out  a-harvesting  on  Deacon  Big- 
gins' farm. 


ARCADY.  27 


ARCADY. 

<  /~"\UT  yonder,"  she  would  say  to  me, 

^~^^  "  Lies  Heaven-land,  lies  Arcady. 
Just  yonder  where  the  blue  skies  drop 
Beyond  the  distant  mountain's  top, 
The  valley  lies  where  all  are  blest; 
The  land  of  love  and  peace  and  rest. 
Oh,  let  us  go,"  she  said  to  me, 
"  And  find  that  land  of  Arcady." 

And  so  we  wandered  hand  in  hand 
To  find  that  peaceful,  happy  land; 
(Ah,  that  was  years,  long  years  ago, 
And  we  were  dreamers  well  I  know), 
But  though  we  wandered  long  and  far, 
From  morning  star  to  evening  star, 
Yet  did  the  happy  vision  flee; 
We  found  not  lovely  Arcady. 


28  ARCADY. 


And  then  she  wearied  on  the  way, 
More  wistful  grew  her  eyes  of  gray. 
(Ah,  dark,  sad  day  of  long  ago, 
How  did  my  tears  unceasing  flow!) 
One  long,  long  kiss — one  last  embrace — 
The  Angel's  message  on  her  face, 
And  then  she  passed  from  life  and  me 
And  found,  I  know,  her  Arcady. 

Since  then,  I've  wandered  far  and  long, 
Have  seen  the  world  and  met  its  wrong; 
I've  sought  in  vain  the  land  of  peace, 
The  land  where  care  and  trouble  cease. 
'Twas  but  the  vision  of  our  youth — 
The  years  have  taught  their  bitter  truth — 
Yet  still  in  dreams  she  whispers  me, 
"  We'll  meet  and  love  in  Arcady." 


LO,   I  AM   THE    CHANGELESS.  29 


LO,  I  AM  THE  CHANGELESS. 

LO,  I  am  the  Changeless,  the  Deathless. 
Lo,  I  am  the  Passionless,  Still. 
In  my  presence  archangels  are  breathless, 

And  the  universe  throbs  at  my  will. 
I  wait,  and  the  ages  flit  by  me. 
I  wait,  and  their  story  is  told. 
All  of  life  and  of  death  hovers  nigh  me, 
And  I  am  the  New  and  the  Old. 

In  the  dust  of  their  definite  places 

My  atoms,  my  men,  they  plod  on; 
And  they  lift  to  the  heavens  their  faces, 

Their  faces  all  troubled  and  wan; 
And  they   dream,   and   they  term  their  dream, 
living; 

They  dream,  and  their  dream  is,  to  die; 
They  dream  they  are  gaining  or  giving— 

And  over  them,  changeless,  am  I. 


3°  LO,    I  AM    THE    CHANGELESS. 

They  dream  of  the  glitter  of  treasure— 

I  shatter  the  dream  at  my  will. 
They  dance  to  the  rhythm  of  pleasure — 

I  nod,  and  the  dancers  are  still. 
They  dream  of  the  glory  of  power, 

My  atomies  born  for  a  day. 
Ay,  the  visions  press  fast  for  an  hour — 

I  nod,  and  the  dreamers  obey. 

Lo,  I  am  the  Changeless,  the  Deathless. 

All  other  shall  blossom  and  fade. 
I  speak,  and  the  ages  are  breathless, 

And  the  drama  of  living  is  played. 
And  whether  the  sleepers  shall  waken, 

Or  whether  they  dream  as  they  lie, 
Unheeding,  uncaring,  unshaken, 

None  other  may  answer  save  I. 


WHEN  PA  FIRS'  ET  TABASCO  SAUCE.        31 


WHEN  PA  FIRS'  ET  TABASCO  SAUCE. 


HEN  pa  firs'  et  tabasco  sauce — I'm  smil- 


w 

in'  'bout  it  yet, 


Although  his  subsekent  remarks  I  always  shall 
regret. 

We'd  come  to  town  to  see  the  sights,  an'  pa  re- 
marked to  me: 

"  We'll  eat  at  a  bong  tong  hotel  an'  sling  some 
style,"  says  he. 

An'  then  he  sort  o'  cast  his  eye  among  the  plates 
an'  all, 

An'  says,  "  That  ketchup  mus'  be  good;  the  bot- 
tle is  so  small;" 

An'  then  he  took  a  piece  of  meat  an'  covered  it 
quite  thick, 

When  pa  firs'  et  tabasco  sauce  an'  rose  to  make 
his  kick. 


32         WHEN  PA   FIRS'  ET  TABASCO  SAUCE. 

It  all  comes  back  so  plain  to  me;  I  rikollect  it 

well; 
He  just  was  talkin'  mild  an'  calm,  an'  then  he 

give  a  yell 
An'  tried  to  cave  the  ceilin'  in  by  buttin'  with  his 

head. 
"Er-hooh!   Er-hooh!  Fire!  Murder!  Hooh!  "  I 

can't  tell  all  he  said, 

But  when  they  heard  his  heated  words  six  wo- 
men lef  the  room 
An'   said  such  language  filled  their  souls  with 

shame  an'  also  gloom, 
But  pa  he  only  gurgled  some,  an'  then  he  yelled 

again, 
When  firs'  he  et  tabasco  sauce  an'  told  about  it 

then. 


We  laid  him  out  upon  a  board  an'  fanned  him 

quite  a  while, 
An'  pa  he  sort  o'  gasped  at  firs'  an'  then  he  tried 

to  smile, 
An'  says:     "Jus'  heat  a  poker  now  an'  run  it 

down  my  neck — 
I  want  to  cool  off  gradual;  it's  better,  I  expeck." 


WHEN  PA   FIRS'  ET  TABASCO  SAUCE.        33 

But  when  he  got  me  out  o'  doors,  he  says:     "  I 

want  to  get 
Thet  there  blame  ketchup's  recipe  an'  learn  jes' 

how  it's  het, 
So  I  can  try  it  on  the  boys  when  you  an'  me  git 

^hum, 
Till  they,  too,  think  the  condiment  is  mixed  with 

Kingdom  Come." 

I've    told    the    story,    but    I    guess    perhaps    I 

oughtn't  to, 
Fer  pa  don't  go  with  me  no  more,  the  way  he 

used  to  do. 
He  said  some  words,  of  course  I  know,  that  were 

too  sizzlin'  hot, 
But  still  I  hope  up  where  he's  gone  they're  all  of 

them  forgot. 

An'  if  they  ain't  per'aps  my  pa  will  to  the  an- 
gels say: 
"  I  wish  you'd  try  that  ketchup  stuff  I  et  down 

there  that  day." 
Of  course  I  feel  they  can't  approve,  but  I  hope, 

just  the  same, 
If  once  they  eat  tabasco  sauce  they'll  count  him 

less  to  blame. 


34  WHEN   UNCLE  JABEZ   COME. 


WHEN  UNCLE  JABEZ  COME. 

T  1  THEN  Uncle  Jabez  come  to  see  my  folks 

an'  me  out  here, 
Where    California's    summers    keep    a-lingerin' 

through  the  year, 
He  kind  o'  took  one  look  around,  an'  then  he 

says,  "  Amen  " — 

The  poppies  shone  like  fields  of  gold — he  whis- 
pered it  again; 
An'  when   I   asked  him   why,   he   says :     "  Sech 

glory  everywhere! 
Yew  knew,  my  boy,  it  seems  tew  me  jest  like 

ole  natur's  prayer;" 
And  then  he  kind  o'  sighed,  an'  says :     "  I  wish 

yew'd  tell,  I  vum, 
Just  haow  yew  folks  what's  livin'  here  can  tell 

when  winter's  come." 


WHEN    UNCLE  JABEZ   COME.  35 

I  showed  him  where  the  mountains  glow  like 

fields  by  angels  trod, 
An'  how  the  rose  keeps  smilin*  back  unto  the 

smile  o'  God, 
An'  how  the  rivers  sparkle  on  without  no  ice  to 

chill, 

An'  how  the  birds  with  all  their  songs  keep  na- 
ture all  a-thrill; 
An'   he,   he  just   stood   there   and   breathed   as 

though  the  air  was  dear, 
An'  says:     "  Ef  this  is  heaven — well,  say  haow 

did  I  git  here? 
We  don't  hev  things  like  this  back  East;  it  ain't 

the  same  tew  hum. 
Haow  in  tarnation   dew  yew  tell   when   winter 

time  hes  come?" 

I  showed  him  pumpkins  overgrown.    He  looked, 

an'  says :     "  B*  gosh, 
Yew  call  that  thing  a  punkin  here?    Back  hum 

we  call  it  squash." 
An'  where  the  orange  hides  its  gold  behind  a 

screen  of  green 
He   looked,    an'    sighed,    an'    softly   said:    "  Ef 

mother  could  o'  seen!" 


WHEN    UNCLE  JABEZ   COME. 


An'  then  he  brushed  a  tear  away  —  she  died  not 

long  ago  — 
An'  the  mockin'  bird  was  whistlin'  a  tender  song, 

an'  low; 
An'  then  he  sort  o'   straightened  up,   an'   says, 

says  he:     "I  vum, 
I  can't  see  haow  yew  people  know  when  winter 

time  hes  come." 

So  Uncle  Jabez,  he's  arranged  to  stay  out  here, 

you  know; 
He  says  he  kind  o'  calkerlates  'twill  make  him 

younger  grow 
To  live  awhile  where  man  is  close  to  nature's 

lovin'  heart 
An'  God  A'mighty  an'   His  child  is  not  so  far 

apart; 
An'  then  he  says:     "An'  ef  I  die,  the  diff'rence 

will  be  small; 
Tew  go  from  here  tew  Heav'n  I  guess  won't  be 

no  jump  at  all." 
But  when  we're  all  alone  he  says:     "  I  vaow,  I'm 

puzzled  some 
Tew  calkerlate  how  I  can  tell  jest  when  the  win- 

ter's come." 


'/   PLEAD    THY  LOVE. 


"  I  PLEAD  THY  LOVE." 

T  F  I  should  go  to-night  where  One  doth  sit 

Upon  a  great  and  white  and  awful  throne; 
If  back  from  me  the  mists  of  time  should  flit, 

Leaving  my  soul  and  me  to  stand  alone 
In  that  vast  presence,  and  if  He  should  say: 
"  What    is    thy    plea,    poor    soul,    for    peace 

above?" 

I  would  not  then,  despairing,  turn  away, 
But  low  would  answer:     "  Lord,  I  plead  Thy 
love." 

I  could  not  plead  my  merit.     Nay,  my  way 

Is  strewn  with  wrack  of  faith  and  hope  and 

trust. 

Life's   dawn   broke   golden,   but   its   eve   growt 
gray, 

And  sin  has  turned  its  flowers  to  yellow  dust. 
Yet,  as  a  wayward  child  turns  home  at  night, 

Trusting  the  love  all  other  loves  above, 
So  will  I  turn,  well  knowing  all  is  right, 

As  low  I  whisper:     "  Lord,  I  plead  Thy  love." 


38  HOW   THE   FLOWERS   GROW. 


HOW  THE  FLOWERS  GROW. 

O  you  know,  darling,  how  pansies  grow? 

God  takes  the  tints  of  the  sunset  glow, 
The  purple  that  floats  in  the  mountain  mist, 
The  blush  of  a  maid  by  her  love  first  kissed, 
The  blue  that's  asleep  in  the  midday  skies, 
The  brown  that  I  love  in  my  baby's  eyes, 
And  He  mingles  them  all  in  a  flower;  and  so, 
That  is  the  way  that  the  pansies  grow. 

Do  you  know,  darling,  how  lilies  grow? 
God  takes  the  soul  of  the  beautiful  snow 
And  molds  it  into  a  chalice  sweet, 
Pure  and  wonderful,  fair,  complete; 
Then  He  takes  the  gold  of  my  baby's  hair 
And  sets  it  amid  the  whiteness  there, 
As  in  night's  white  skies  the  bright  stars  glow; 
And  that  is  the  way  that  the  lilies  grow. 


HOW   THE   FLOWERS   GROW.  39 

Do  you  know,  darling,  how  roses  grow? 
Ah,  that  is  the  strangest  of  all,  I  know; 
For  they  are  the  fairest  of  all  things  fair, 
The  one  perfect  blossom,  beyond  compare; 
Symbol  of  sweetness  and  all  loveliness — 
God  wished  His  children  to  comfort  and  bless, 
And  He  wrote  the  thought  in  a  flower;  and  so, 
That  is  the  way  that  the  roses  grow. 


40  HEY   THERE,    LITTLE    GIRLS. 


HEY  THERE,  LITTLE  GIRLS. 

T  T  EY  there,  little  girls,  who  live  in  the  West, 
And  were  born  here,  you  know,  'cause  you 

thought  it  was  best, 

Have  you  ever  heard  tell  of  the  wonderful  East, 
Where  the  frost  makes  of  little  girls'   noses  a 

feast, 
Where  the  snowbirds  wear  stockings  to  warm 

their  poor  toes, 

And  perhaps  it's  your  finger,  perhaps  it's  your 
nose 

That  is  frozen,  you  know, 
And  your  tears  won't  flow, 

For  they  freeze  into  ice  in  your  eyes?     Oh!  Ohl 
Have  you  ever  heard  tell? 
You  haven't?    Well!  Well! 
Now  listen  to  me,  and  you'll  know,  know,  know. 


HEY   THERE,    LITTLE    GIRLb. 


Hey   there,    little   girls,   you'll  be   'stonished   to 

know 

That  back  in  the  East  the  rain  is  just  snow; 
And  the  poor  little  kitties  all  have  to  wear  fur, 
And   their   breath   freezes   hard    whenever   they 

purr, 

And  if  the  dogs  bark,  that  bark  it  will  freeze, 
And  they  use  it,  you  know,  to  cover  the  trees, 

And  instead  of  "Hello!" 

Meeting,  folks  say,  "  I  know 
That  my  ears  both  are  frozen;  they're  frozen. 
Oh!  Oh!" 

Had  you  ever  heard  tell? 

You  hadn't?    Well!  Well! 
It  really  is  time  you  should  know,  know,  know. 

Hey  there,  little  girls,  have  you  ever  heard  tell 
How  they  hang  their  thermometers  out  in  the 

well, 
And  the  mercury   drops,   and  it   drops,   and  it 

drops, 
'Till  it  reaches  the  water,   and  that's  where  it 

stops; 


42  HEY    THERE,    LITTLE    GIRLS. 

And  they  thaw  little  girls — it's  a  terrible  shock! — 
And  melt  them  each  day  at  just  four  o'clock. 

And  the  chilblains,  you  know, 

They  bite  at  your  toe 
Till  it  itches,  and  itches,  and  itches?     Oh!  Oh! 

Did  you  ever  hear  tell? 

You  didn't?    Well!  Well! 
I'm  really  so  glad  now  you  know,  know,  know. 

Hey  there,  little  girls;  the  cyclones  blow  there, 
And  they  take  little  children  right  up  in  the  air, 
And  they  twist  them  and  whirl  them  around  and 

around 
Till    their   papas    don't    know    them,    supposing 

they're  found; 
And  sometimes  they  blow  them  clear  up  to  the 

sky, 

And  they  never  come  back  again !  Never!  Oh,  my! 
Would  you  like  East  to  go? 
You  wouldn't,  I  know, 

For  I've  tried  it  myself,  and  it's  dreadful.    Oh !  Oh ! 
So  you  hadn't  heard  tell? 
You  hadn't?    Well!  Well! 

It  was  certainly  time  you  should  know,  know, 
know. 


THE    TEACHER   KNOWS.  43 


THE  TEACHER  KNOWS. 

NE  time  my  teacher  said,  says  she: 
"  It's  no  use  talkin';  seems  to  me 

That  you're  the  worst  boy  that  I've  got; 

You're  worser  than  the  rest,  a  lot. 

I've  whipped  you,  an'  I've  scolded,  too; 

Don't  make  no  difference  what  I  do; 

You  keep  right  on  jus'  if  I'd  not. 

Ain't  you  the  worst  boy  that  I've  got?  " 

An'  then  my  teacher  said,  says  she: 
"  Your  case  is  always  puzzlin'  me. 
Now  don't  you  know  it  hurts  me,  too, 
When  scoldin'  or  a  whippin'  you? 
I  always  want  you  to  be  good 
An'  actin'  like  a  nice  boy  should, 
Because  I  love  you  "—Then  she  sighed, 
An'  I — I — well,  I  up  an'  cried. 


44  THE    TEACHER   KNOWS. 

Since  then  my  teacher's  gone  away, 
An'  I  don't  go  to  school  an'  play 
An'  study  some,  's  I  used  to  do 
Before  my  schoolin'  days  was  through. 
But  still  my  Teacher  says,  says  He: 
"  I'm  teachin'  you  as  seems  to  me 
Is  best;  with  sorrow's  sting  an'  blow 
I'm  teachin'  you  the  way  to  go." 

An'  then  my  Teacher  says,  says  He: 

"  If  only  you'll  look  up  to  me 

Through  eyes  bedimmed  with  trouble's  rain, 

You'll  learn  the  lesson  hid  in  pain, 

An'  know,  though  cruel  seems  the  blow, 

'Twas  dealt  because  I  love  you  so." 

An',  though  I'm  weary  an'  oppressed, 

I  guess  my  Teacher  knows  the  best. 


SWING   LOW,    STARS.  45 


SWING  LOW,  STARS. 

OWING  low,  stars,  for  I  want  to  hear  your 
•^  singing. 

I  want  to  hear  the  slumber  song  you  murmur 

to  the  night 
In   the   distant,   distant   spaces   where   an   angel 

host  is  winging 
Its  way  between  the  moonbeams  to  the  farther 

fields  of  light. 
The  daytime  has  its  voices,  but  a  cry  is  ringing 

through  them, 
The   weary   cry   of   sorrow,    the   cruel   cry   of 

wrong, 
And  we  look  upon  God's  sunlight  in  anguish  to 

renew  them — 
Swing  low,  stars,  for  I  want  to  hear  your  song. 

Sleep — sleep — 

Sleep — sleep; 
Better  dream  than  wake  to  weep. 

Care  and  doubt 

May  mortals  flout 
When  the  stars,  the  stars  creep  out. 


46  SWING   LOW,    STARS. 

Swing  low,  stars,  for  I've  been  dreaming,  dream- 
ing 
That  up  above  the  crystal  heights  is  peace  and 

always  peace, 
And  I'm  burdened  by  the  toiling,  and  I'm  weary 

of  the  scheming, 
And  I'd  like  to  find  a  country  where  the  care 

and  labor  cease. 
The  days  are  full  of  effort,  but  the  tranquil  nights 

are  tender 
As  the  eyes  of  one  who  loved  me  well,  oh,  long 

ago,  so  long; 
So  I  turn  from  pain  and  passion  to  the  nights  of 

peaceful  splendor — 
Swing  low,  stars,  for  I  want  to  hear  your  song. 

Rest— rest- 
Children,  rest; 

Care  is  but  a  daytime  guest. 
None  should  weep — 
Children,  sleep — 

While  the  stars  their  vigils  keep. 


WHEN  MOTHER   CALLED.  47 


WHEN  MOTHER  CALLED. 

A  /T  OTHER  used  to  come  and  say: 
1VX      «  Come,  little  boy,  it's  time  to  rise. 
Wake  right  up,  without  delay; 

Shake  yourself  and  rub  your  eyes." 
An'  I'd  say:    "  Huh!  Wha— Ye-e-es,"  and  then- 
Go  right  off  to  sleep  again. 

After  while  she'd  come  and  say, 

Just  as  gently  as  before: 
"  Wake  and  see  this  lovely  day. 

Don't  go  to  sleep,  dear,  any  more." 
An'  I'd  say:    "Yes — I'm — coming;"  then — 
Go  right  off  to  sleep  again. 

Didn't  matter  though;  no  less 

Patient,  gentle,  kind  was  she 
When  she  came  and  said:     "  I  guess 

My  little  boy  asleep  must  be." 
An'  I  said:    "  I'll — get — up,"  and  then — 
Went  right  off  to  sleep  again. 


48  WHEN  MOTHER    CALLED. 

Then  my  grandpa  came  to  call. 

'Twas  but  little  that  he  said; 
Just  one  word,  and  that  was  all, 

Just  one  word,  and  that,  "  A\-fred  !  " 
Just  one  word,  you  see,  but  then — 
I  didn't  go  to  sleep  again. 

Just  that  difference!    But,  you  see, 
I've  been  thinking  here  alone, 

Should  my  mother  now  call  me 
In  the  tender,  gentle  tone 

Of  the  past,  I'd  wake,  and  then — 

I  wouldn't  go  to  sleep  again. 


TWO   PRAYERS.  49 


TWO  PRAYERS. 

/^REAT  God,  'tis  not  for  soul  or  heart 

I  plead  with  thee; 
Nor  that  I  act  a  nobler  part, 

Or  better  be; 
'Tis  not  that  I  erect  may  stand 

While  life-dreams  crash, 
Nor  that  I  reach  a  helping  hand, 

But  just  for  cash. 

Lord,  give  me  cash ;  I  fain  would  be 

Like  all  the  rest; 
No  other  god  than  red  gold  see, 

But  hold  it  best. 
I'd  barter  honor,  virtue,  good 

That  life  may  hold, 
And  make  my  higher  nature's  food 

Just  gold — gold — gold. 


50  TWO   PRAYERS. 


The  sorry  sting  of  other's  pain 

I  would  not  know, 
For  callous  hearts  may  hope  for  gain 

In  coin;  and  so 
I'd  bury  sympathy  for  all 

And  hug  myself, 
Engrossed  in  my  ambitions  small, 

My  greed  for  pelf. 

So,  Father,  kill  my  better  part 

That  I  may  be 
Devoid  of  feeling  and  of  heart 

As  those  I  see 
About  me,  callous  to  the  woe 

That  hems  them  in; 
Let  me  no  care  for  others  know, 

But  lucre  win. 

I  knew  a  millionaire,  and  he 

Was  praised  of  men; 
O'er  petty,  small,  he  seemed  to  me, 

And  base,  but  then, 
He  had  his  gold  and  people  bowed, 

Or  feared  his  lash. 
I'd  have  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd, 

So  give  me  cash. 


TWO   PRAYERS.  51 


So  runs  the  prayer.     But  'tis  not  mine — 

Dear  God,  forbid! 
For  I  have  felt  Thy  thought  divine 

In  me  is  hid; 
I  know  that  o'er  the  petty  throng 

There  stands  Thy  Truth, 
The  principle  that  combats  wrong, 

Drea*^  of  my  youth. 

It  stands  unmoved.     Our  little  lives 

Wail  out  their  song; 
Ill-seeming  greed  in  fatness  thrives, 

But  not  for  long; 
For  still  Thy  Truth  moves  changeless  on 

Through  time's  long  day, 
And  still  shall  rule  when  stars  grow  wan — 

Show  me  Thy  way. 


52  SAVE    YOUR    LETTERS. 


SAVE  YOUR  LETTERS. 

E  here,   you  little  fellows,  whom  I  cannot 

help  but  like, 
Why   don't   you   save   your   letters,    and   so    get 

yourselves  a  bike  ? 
Or  if  you  do  not  know  the  way,  or  think  I  talk 

in  fun, 

If  you'll  listen  for  a  moment,  I  will  tell  you  how 
it's  done: 

Spell  "  rubber  "  r-u-b-e-r,  and  there  you  save  a 

.     "b," 
And  that's  a  letter  that  you  need,  as  any  one  can 

see. 
Then  next  spell   "  lief "  just  1-e-f,   and   I've   no 

doubt  you'll  like 
To  notice  that  you  now  have  saved  b-i,  one-half 

of  bike. 


SA  VE    YOUR   LETTERS.  53 

And  then  spell  "stick"  s-t-i-c;  you've  saved  a 

"  k,"  you  see, 

And  b-i-k  is  not  so  bad;  it  only  lacks  an  "  e;" 
And  we  know  how  to  save  an  "  e;"  we'll  take  the 

small  word  "  dike  " 
And  spell  it  simply  d-i-k,  and  there!     You  have 

your  bike! 

So  now,  my  little  fellows,  whom  I  could  not  fail 
to  like, 

Start  in  to  save  your  letters,  and  so  get  your- 
selves a  bike. 

And,  if  your  ingenuity  is  not  exceeding  small, 

I  think,  no  doubt,  you,  too,  can  save  some  mar- 
bles and  a  ball. 


54  IT'S   CHRISTMAS    TIME. 


IT'S  CHRISTMAS  TIME. 

T  T'S  Christmas  time;  it's  Christmas  time. 
Let  Christmas  bells  ring  out  their  chime; 
Let  Christmas  fairies  trip  along, 
A  merry,  maddening,  gladdening  throng; 
Let  Christmas  blessings  bring  their  bliss; 
Let  Christmas  angels  stoop  and  kiss 
The  world's  gray  heart  to  tuneful  rhyme, 
For,  oh,  it's  Christmas,  Christmas  time. 

It's  Christmas  time,  both  East  and  West, 
But  there  the  earth  is  crystal  dressed, 
While  here  its  robes  are  bonnie  green, 
With  brooks  as  silver  threads  between. 
Cold  winter  there,  bright  winter  here; 
For  them  the  frost,  for  us  the  cheer; 
But  East  or  West,  to  live's  sublime 
In  merry,  merry  Christmas  time. 


UNIVERSITY  ) 


IT'S   C&XISTMAS   TIME.  55 

In  Christmas  time,  or  far  or  near, 
There's  just  one  creed:     Be  of  good  cheer. 
There's  just  one  song  that  rings  again: 
Peace,  peace  on  earth;  good  will  to  men. 
On  this  one  day  let's  care  forget, 
The  grief  we  know,  the  ill  we  met, 
And  let  the  bells  ring  chime  on  chime, 
In  Christmas  time,  the  merry  time. 


56  "//AS  LIFE   A    FAILURE." 

"  HIS  LIFE  A  FAILURE." 

T  T  E  had  no  "  business  tact;"  'tis  plain  enough. 
•*•  -*•      He  stored  no  gold  while  on  his  earthly 

way; 
111  clad  was  he,  with  garments  worn  and  rough; 

Scarce  knowing  how  he'd  live  from  day  to  day. 
Improvident!     His  little  all  he  gave 

To  those  who  needed;  poor,  yet  fed  the  poor, 
And  still  neglected  for  himself  to  save. 

Unhoused,  unkempt,  they  voted  him  a  boor — 
No  tact  had  he! 

No  wisdom,  surely!     Why,  the  vagrant  dared 

To  lift  his  voice  'gainst  rulers  of  the  State. 
Not   e'en   the   church  —  God   save   us   all !  —  he 

spared, 
But    scourged    alike    earth's    sainted    and    her 

great. 
To  save  a  sinner,  he,  unwise,  would  say 

That  you  must  touch  him  with  a  tender  hand; 
Must  touch  the  wretch  of  coarser,  baser  clay! 
Say,    when    was    e'er    a    scheme    so    foolish 
planned? 

No  wisdom  his! 


"HIS  LIFE   A    FAILURE."  57 

Fanatic,  too!     He  held  a  strange  belief 
That  man  might  reach  to  heights  as  yet  but 

guessed; 

And,  hoping  much,  he  walked  a  path  of  grief 
That    they    who    falter    might    the    more    be 

blessed. 
Aye,  thus  he  dreamed;  who  doubts  the  dream 

was  vain? 

And  thus  he  lived;  was  e'er  such  folly  known? 
Why,  when  he  died,  still  scouting  golden  gain, 
His  grave  was  bought  by  charity  alone! 
So  unwise,  he! 

"  His  life  a  failure!  "     So  I  hear  you  say; 
And  who  can  doubt  who  looks  on  earth's  suc- 
cess, 
Where  gilded  folly  proudly  wears  the  bay 

And  simpering  millions  haste  some  knave  to 

bless? 
Fanatic!     Yes,  according  to  your  rule. 

Foolish!     No     doubt,    in    average    mankind's 

ken. 

A  teacher  with  one  lesson  for  his  school; 
Impractical,  with  faith  in  love,  but  then — 
He  was  The  Christ. 


'775   THE  SECRET  OF    YOUTH, 


'TIS  THE  SECRET  OF  YOUTH. 


T     IFE  taught  me  her  lesson;  I  hold  it  as  truth 
•^  a  smile  in  the  heart  is  the  secret  of 


youth; 

For  age  cannot  harm  him,  nor  do  him  a  wrong, 
Who  whistles  a  bit  as  he  journeys  along. 
The  face  must  be  wrinkled,   the   hair  must  be 

gray, 
But  the  heart  may  be  young  till  the  end  of  the 

day, 

For  ever  and  ever  there  standeth  the  truth: 
A  smile  in  the  heart  is  the  secret  of  youth. 

What    matter    the    wrinkles,    except    they    shall 

frown? 
What    matters   the    silver   where   once   was   the 

brown? 
For  still  we  may  smile  though  the  morning  is 

gone, 
And  the  light  of  that  smile  is  the  light  of  the 

dawn; 


'775    THE   SECRET   OF    YOUTH.  59 

And  still  as  we  whistle  dull  care  to  the  wind, 
There's  a  way  out  of  trouble  forever  we  find; 
For  the  ages  have  told  it;  they  whisper  the  truth 
That  a  smile  in  the  heart  is  the  secret  of  youth. 

The  shoulders  must  stoop,  but  the   spirit  may 

stand 

Serene  as  the  dawnlight  that  kisseth  the  land. 
Old  age  cannot  touch  them,  the  years  they  defy, 
Who  smile  as  life's  phantoms  go  scurrying  by. 
A  sigh  is  Care's  agent  to  wrinkles  enroll, 
And  a  frown  is  the  curtain  we  drop  o'er  the  soul; 
But  the  spirit  still  whispers  'mid  sorrow  and  ruth 
That  a  smile  in  the  heart  is  the  secret  of  youth. 


60  JIM    WAS  PECULIAR. 

JIM  WAS  PECULIAR. 

JIM  was  peculiar.     The  "folks  all  said 
They  kind  o'   suspicioned  he's   queer  in  the 

head. 

He'd  go  moonin'  along  in  an  absentish  way, 
An'  lots  o'  the  time  he  had  nothin'  to  say. 
An'   when  he  did  talk  there  was  no  one  could 

know 
The  thing  that  he'd  say,  fer  his  thoughts  seemed 

to  go 

In  a  style  o'  their  own,  an'  likely,  maybe, 
He'd  set  folks  to  thinkin',  which  hurts  us,  you 
see. 

Jim  was  peculiar.     I  rickolleck  now 

He  of'en  remarked  that  he  couldn't  see  how 

A  hull  million  dollars  could  do  a  man  good. 

"  Do  you  reckon,"  he'd  say,  "  he  can  use  it  in 

food, 

Er  drinkin',  er  housin',  er  wearin'  of  clothes? 
Well,    then,    what's    the    good    of    it,    land    only 

knows." 

An'  then  he'd  go  moonin'  and  moonin'  away, 
An',  "  Jim  is  peculiar,"  the  neighbors  'ud  say. 


JIM    WAS  PECULIAR.  6 1 

Jim  was  peculiar.     The  children  allowed 
There  wasn't  his  ekal  in  all  o'  the  crowd; 
An'  you'd  see  'em  a-smilin'  when  he  was  around 
An'  tellin'  'em  stories  frum  flat  on  the  ground, 
An'  their  laughter  would  sound  like  notes  from 

the  choir, 

When  the  angels  is  singin'  an'  callin'  us  higher; 
An'  the  folks,  w'en  they  saw  it  and  heered  it, 

would  say: 
"  That  Jim  gits  more  queerer  an'  queerer  each 

day." 

Jim  was  peculiar.     The  day  when  he  lay 
At  home  on  his  bed  while  his  life  ebbed  away 
He  only  remarked:     "Well,   so   fer  as   I   know 
I've  made  a  few  happy;  I'm  ready  to  go." 
An'  the  people  all  come  to  the  funeral  then, 
An'  they  mos'ly  shed  tears  at  the  final  amen; 
An'  they  carved  on  his  monument  merely  this 

word: 
"  Jim  Jones  was  peculiar,  an'  so  was  his  Lord." 


62  DEUCE    TAKE   PHILOSOPHY. 


DEUCE  TAKE  PHILOSOPHY! 

T~~\  EUCE  take  philosophy!  I  know  a  way 
*^  Better  by  far  than  philosophers  know. 
Ho,  all  ye  sages  with  heads  turning  gray, 

What  in  the  end  is  the  thing  you  can  show? 
Is  it  some  knowledge  to  tell  of  the  how, 

With  ne'er  a  perception  of  wherefore  and  why? 
What  is  the  morrow?    And  what  is  the  now? 

And  what  is  the  change  that  we  label,  to  die? 

Deuce  take  philosophy!     I  know  a  spot 

Where  all  of  the  wisdom  of  dust-covered  tome 
And  its  half-erudition  availeth  us  not — 
'Tis  the  place  where  Love  reigns  in  the  king- 
dom of  Home. 

And,  oh,  ye  philosophers,  there  is  a  light, 
The  light  shining  forth  from  the  eyes  that  I 

love, 
Which   maketh   your   wisdom   to    seem   as    the 

night, 
So  high  its  revealment  your  knowledge  abore. 


DEUCE    TAKE   PHILOSOPHY.  6j 

Deuce  take  philosophy!     Hands  that  reach  out 

To  bless  me,  caress  me,  and  lighten  the  pain 
That  comes  'mid  the  shadows   of  care  and  of 
doubt 

To  double  my  labor  and  deaden  my  brain, 
Yours  is  the  wisdom  the  sages  have  missed; 

Yours  is  the  substance,  and  theirs  is  the  foam. 
So  I  turn  from  the  books  to  the  ones  who  have 
kissed 

My  lips  into  smiles  in  the  kingdom  of  Home. 


64  OUT  IN    THE   MOUNTAINS. 


OUT  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

T    WANT  to  be  out  in  the  mountains;  I'm  tired 

of  staying  here, 
With  only  the  everlasting  plain  outstretching  far 

or  near; 

I  am  weary  of  the  city  and  the  pavement's  cease- 
less glare, 
And  I  want  to  be  out  where  God's  about  and 

His  glory's  everywhere; 
I  want  to  lie  down  on  the  hillside  and  dream  as 

'the  white  clouds  pass, 
With  no  one  to  tell  me  I'd  better  move  on,  or 

warn  me,  "  Keep  off  the  grass;" 
I  just  want  a  chance  to  breathe  an  air  that's 

never  been  boxed  as  yet; 
Oh,  I'd  like  to  be  free  as  the  brown  quails  be, 

with  never  a  care  to  fret. 


OUT  IN   THE   MOUNTAINS.  65 


I  want  to  be  out  in  the  mountains  where  there's 

room  for  the  soul  to  grow; 
Where  the  brooks  just  laugh  in  their  freedom, 

and  the  hills  in  the  evening  glow. 
With  a  rod  or  a  gun  as  poor  excuse,  I'd  lazily  lie 

and  dream, 
And  "  Trouble,"   I'd  say,  "  may  go  its  way;  it 

isn't  a  part  of  my  scheme." 
And  the  trout  might  leap  in  the  sunlight  for  all 

of  my  rod  and  me, 
And  the  quail  might  whistle,  the  deer  might  run; 

I'd  leave  them  safe  and  free, 
For  someway  I  think  in  the  mountains  dear  life 

is  too  sweet  to  lose; 
It  is  only  down  here,  where  we  worry  and  fear, 

that  a  creature  to  die  might  choose. 


66  OUT  IN    THE   MOUNTAINS. 


I  want  to  be  out  in  the  mountains  where  freedom 

is  not  a  name; 
Where  the   soul   is   glad   in   its   birthright,    nor 

walks  with  the  halt  and  lame; 
For  peace  is  upon  the  summits,  and  liberty's  in 

the  vales, 
And  the  heart,  oft  sad,  can  only  be  glad  in  the 

shadow-haunted  dales. 

With  the  birds  trilling  out  in  gladness,  the  flow- 
ers like  thoughts  of  God, 
With  the  blue  above  and  the  green  beneath,  and 

the  blossom-sprinkled  sod; 
With  rest,  dear  rest  for  the  spirit  through  the 

peaceful,  peaceful  year, 
I  want  to  be  out  in  the  mountains;  I'm  tired  of 

staying  here. 


MY  LITTLE   MOTHER'S   PR  A  YER. 


MY  LITTLE  MOTHER'S  PRAYER. 

HE  was  just  a  little  woman,  not  more  than 

five  feet  tall, 
But  she  had  a  way  of  working  that  was  bound 

to  beat  them  all. 
She  would  work  for  me  and  sister,  and  her  hands 

were  never  still; 
She  just  kept  working,  working,  as  I  guess  she 

always  will. 
And  all   my  aunts   would  say  to  her:     "  Now, 

Julia,  don't  you  know 
You'll   spoil  them   children  sure  as  fate  if  you 

keep  workin'  so 
And  don't  let  them  do  some  of  it."     I  s'pose  my 

aunts  were  right, 
But  still  my  sister  wasn't  spoiled,  and  p'r'aps  I 

wasn't — quite. 


68  MY  LITTLE  MOTHERS  PRAYER. 

I  never  see  my  mother  now,  but,  wheresoe'er  I 

be, 
I  know  that  she  is  working  yet  and  thinking  still 

of  me; 
And  sometimes   when  she's   thinking  there's  a 

film  before  her  eye, 
And  for  me  a  prayer's  ascending  to  the  Father 

up  on  high. 
And,   oh,   I  think   I   couldn't  stray  so  very  far 

from  Him, 
While  that  sweet  prayer's  ascending  and  those 

dear  eyes  are  dim; 
And  sometimes  as  I  wander  I  can  almost  see  her 

there, 
With  the  dear  hands  working,   working,  and  I 

seem  to  hear  the  prayer. 

I  think  the  boys  whose  mothers  work,  and  hope, 

and  always  pray, 
Though    they    may    stumble    oftentimes,    won't 

wander  quite  away; 
And  if  they  fall,  and  fall  again,  they'll  rise  again, 

for  there, 
In  every  lowest  depth  of  sin,  they'll  hear  their 

mother's  prayer. 


MY  LITTLE   MOTHER'S  PRAYER.  69 

They'll  hear  it  in  the  stillest  night;  'twill  follow 
them  by  day, 

And  when  they  falter,  "  Rise  again  "  'twill  ever, 
ever  say. 

It  reaches  down  the  darkest  years;  it  points  to 
guerdons  fair. 

Few  hopeless  fall  who  still  recall  a  mother's  lov- 
ing prayer. 

Oh,    mother,    little    mother,     God's    hand    has 

touched  to  gray 
The  soft  brown  hair  so  smooth  and  fair  that  I 

recall  to-day, 
Though  the  faithful  hands  still  labor  for  the  ones 

they  love  the  best, 
As  they  will  toil  unto  the  end,  until  He  giveth 

rest; 
Yet    I    think    sometimes    that    they    must    fold, 

while  comes  the  misty  host 
Of  visions  of  the  girl  and  boy  for  whom  they 

toiled  the  most; 
And  I  long  that  you  shall  feel  and  know,  as  you 

sit  dreaming  there, 
That  your  boy  in  love  remembers  every  faithful 

deed  and  prayer. 


70  AS   THE    YEARS   GO   BY. 


AS  THE  YEARS  GO  BY. 

T^OREVER  and  ever  the  suns  go  down; 

Forever  and  ever  they  rise  again; 
And  life  is  a  maid  with  a  golden  crown 

And  sandals  of  darkness  beloved  by  men. 
We  are  dreaming  to-day  of  a  future  of  bliss; 

To-morrow  we  bury  the  hope  with  a  sigh, 
With  a  long,  long  sigh  and  a  farewell  kiss — 

"And  that  is  the  way  that  the  years  go  by. 


"  To-morrow,"  we  say,  "  I  will  build  me  a  home 

In  the  beautiful,  beautiful  land  of  rest." 
But  the  morrow  comes  and  our  feet  yet  roam, 

And  our  hearts  are  sad  and  our  lives  unblest, 
And  the  suns  smile  down  on  our  falling  tears, 

And  the  friends  we  love  are  the  ones  who  die, 
And  the  phantom  of  pleasure  is  chased  by  fears — 

And  that  is  the  way  that  the  years  go  by. 


AS    THE    YEARS   GO   BY. 


Forever  and  ever  we  say  at  night: 

"  Oh,  woeful  to-morrow,  to  bring  me  pain!  " 
But  the  morrow  comes,  and  the  sun  is  bright, 
And  the  loss  that  we  dreaded  has  turned  to 

gain; 

And  the  flowers  of  joy  in  our  souls  still  bloom, 
And  the  smile  of  the  spirit  has  followed  its 

sigh, 
And  the  daybeams  of  gladness  have  banished  the 

gloom — 
And  that  is  the  way  that  the  years  go  by. 

Forever  and  ever — oh,  valley  of  life, 

Where  joy  is  a  phantom  and  woe  is  a  shade  ! 
Mocked  by  our  visions  no  less  than  our  strife, 

What  is  the  game  when  the  game  is  played  ? 
Who  is  the  Player  whose  pawns  are  we, 

Who  sits  in  the  mists  as  the  moments  fly? 
Who  is  the  One  that  the  end  doth  see, 

As  the  phantoms  fade  and  the  years  go  by  ? 


72  MY  DAUGHTER'S  PRISCILLA. 


MY  DAUGHTER'S  PRISCILLA. 

TV  /T  Y  daughter's  Priscilla.     I  know  not  how 

She   came  to   my  life   from  the   Puritan 

days, 
With  the  calm,  true  eyes  and  the  tranquil  brow 

And  the  voice  as  sweet  as  a  hymn  of  praise; 
But  if  some  picture  from  days  of  old 

Might  step  from  its  place  in  an  oaken  frame. 
Bearing  no  trace  of  the  gray  past's  mold, 
I  fancy  that  picture  would  look  the  same — 

The  same  as  my  daughter,  whose  calm,  slow  eyes 
Look    to    my    own,    while    the    love    shines 

through, 
As  a  star  ray  pierces  the  evening  skies 

Or  a  sunbeam  cleaves  through  the  dome  of 

blue. 

In  the  touch  of  her  hand  all  comfort  dwells, 
And  Peace  through  her  dear  lips  makes  her 

plea, 

For  her  voice  is  sweet  as  a  chime  of  bells — 
My  daughter  Priscilla,  who  blesses  me. 


MY  DAUGHTER'S   PRISCILLA.  73 

My  daughter's  Priscilla.     Ah  me  !  Ah  me  ! 

My  heart  is  turbulent,  wild  and  worn; 
But  her  tranquil  eyes  I  need  but  see, 

And  the  cloak  of  unrest  from  my  soul  is  torn. 
I  know  not  how — I  say  it  again — 

She  came  from  the  past  with  her  eyes  a-shine, 
But  this  I  cry  to  my  soul's  amen  : 

"  I  thank  the  Father  that  she  is  mine." 


74  AT    THE    BOTTOM   OF   THE   SEA. 


AT  THE  BOTTOM  OF  THE  SEA. 

"T"\  O  you  think  you'd  like  to  be  at  the  bottom 
**f  of  the  sea, 

With  the  pollyhinkus  swinging  all  around, 
And  the  gogglers  with  their  eyes  big  as  mama's 

custard  pies, 

And  the   winkus   that   goes   crawling   on   the 
ground, 

And  the  spry, 
(Oh,  my  eye  !) 
The  spry,  spry,  spry, 
The  very,  very,  very,  very  spry  springaree 

That   slides   through   the   glare    of   the   water 

everywhere, 

On  the  shifting,  lifting  bottom  of  the  deep  blue 
sea? 


AT    THE   BOTTOM   OF   THE   SEA.  75 


At  the  bottom  of  the  sea  there  is  strangest  mys- 
tery, 

For  the  queen  of  all  the  sprites  is  living  there, 
With  amber  beads  for  eyes,  and  she  lives  on  oys- 
ter fries, 

And  she  hates  to  hear  the  wicked  sailors  swear; 
And  her  hair, 
It  is  fair; 

It  is  fair,  fair,  fair; 

It  is  very,  very,  very,  very,  very  bright  and  fair; 
And  the  fishes  swim  about  through  her  palace 

in  and  out, 

Through  the  water  that  is  shifting  and  is  lifting 
everywhere. 


76  AT    THE    BOTTOM   OF    THE   SEA. 


But  I  want  to  tell  you,  dear,  and  I  hope  that  you 

will  hear, 
That  really   it  is  better  to  be   living  on   the 

ground, 

Where  the  things  are  not  so  queer,  but  the  at- 
mosphere is  clear, 

And  in  order  to  enjoy  it  'tisn't  needful  to  be 
drowned; 

For  you  know 
(It  is  so, 

And  you  should  know,  know) 
It  is  really,  really  chilly  where  the  dim  depths  be; 
And  it's  surely  very  tough;  yes,  it  certainly  is 

rough, 
For  you  can't  breathe  a  little  in  the  deep  blue 


LITTLE    WHITE  SISTER.  77 


LITTLE  WHITE  SISTER. 

,  little  white  Sister,  secluded  out  yonder, 
Saying  your  Aves  from  day  unto  day, 
What  are  your  hopes  and  your  visions,  I  wonder. 

What  are  your  fancies  of  life  and  its  way  ? 
Know  you  the  burdens,  the  cares  and  the  losses 

Waiting  the  weary  outside  of  your  door  ? 
Know  you  how  heavy,  how  heavy  the  crosses  ? 
Know  you  the  hearts  that  are  troubled  and 
sore  ? 

Little  white  Sister, 
Tell  me,  I  pray, 
What  do  you  dream 
As  the  years  grow  gray  ? 


78  LITTLE    WHITE   SISTER. 


Oh,  little  white  Sister,  your  heart  has  its  fan- 
cies— 

I  look  in  your  eyes  and  I  know  it  is  so — 
They    steal    from    your    soul    in    the    half-timid 

glances, 

Then  steal  again  back,  as  a  spirit  might  go. 
Your  voice  is  so  quiet,  I  wonder,  I  wonder 
If  the  charm  of  contentment  you  really  have 

found. 

Does  peace  indeed  dwell  your  white  raiment  un- 
der ? 

Does  your  spirit's  horizon  no  mist  of  doubt 
bound  ? 

Little  white  Sister, 
Tell  me,  I  pray, 
Does  peace  in  your  breast 
Dwell  ever  and  aye  ? 


LITTLE    WHITE   SISTER.  79 


Oh,  little  white  Sister,  out  here  in  the  battle 
The  smoke  of  the  struggle  envelops  us  all; 
We  lose  His  low  voice  in  the  musketry's  rattle, 
And  the  mad  dream  of  glory  still  holds  us  in 

thrall; 
And  we  drag  on  our  chains,  or  iron  or  golden, 

And  we  cry  at  the  last  that  this  life  is  a  lie; 
And  we  turn  dreamy  eyes  to  the  days  that  are 

olden — 

Do  the  years  with  you,  Sister,  glide  peacefully 
by  ? 

Little  white  Sister, 
Tell  me,  I  pray, 
Is  your  soul  at  peace, 
Removed  from  the  in.y  ? 


LITTLE    WHITE   SISTER, 


Oh,  little  white  Sister,  in  gentle  petitions 
I  pray  you  remember  one  soul  of  unrest; 
Shorn  of  his  happiness,  mocked  by  ambitions, 
Cross   little   white  hands  for  him   over   your 

breast; 

For  he  has  forgotten — the  battle's  so  dreary! — 
The  words  that  he  learned  at  a  dear  mother's 

knee, 

And  his  heart  it  is  dumb — for  life  is  a- weary! 
Little  white  Sister,  reach  upward,  for  me. 
Little  white  Sister, 
Peace  unto  thee; 
In  gentle  petitions 
Remember  thou  me. 


THE  SCHOOLGIRL    THA  T  1  HA  TED.  8l 


THE  SCHOOLGIRL  THAT  I  HATED. 

OMETIMES  when  memory  draws  the  veil 

and  I  look  back  a  way 
To   where   the   sun   was   shining   in   my   happy, 

youthful  day 
I  catch  the  scent  of  lilacs  as  they  blossomed  by 

our  door, 
And  I  hear  the  robins  chirping  as  they  used  to 

chirp  of  yore, 

And  the  oriole  is  flitting  like  a  ball  of  living  fire, 
And  the  river's  sort  o'  whispering  just  as  thougk 

'twould  never  tire; 
And   then,    amid    the    faces    that    on    memory'i 

screen  I  see, 
Comes  the  schoolgirl  that  I  hated  when  she  sat 

in  front  of  me. 


82  THE  SCHOOLGIRL   THA  T  I  HA  TED. 


Someway  I  see  her  plainly  now  in  scanty  dress  of 

blue, 
With  eyes  in  part  coquettish  and  in  part  serene 

and  true; 
With  curls  that  liked  to  catch  the  light  and  twist 

it  in  and  out, 

And  lips  just  right  for  kissing,  if  they  were  in- 
clined to  pout. 
I  knew  that  she  was  pretty,  but  I  said  she  was  no 

good — 
Though  I  couldn't  help  admiring  her;  no  boy 

that's  human  could — 
But  she  made  up  faces  at  me,  and  she  could  a 

vixen  be, 
The  schoolgirl  that  I  hated  when  she  sat  in  front 

of  me. 


THE  SCHOOLGIRL    THA  T  I  HA  TED.  83 


She  wouldn't  play  at  marbles,  and  she  couldn't 

play  at  ball, 
And  I  often  intimated  that  she  was  no  good  at 

all. 
I  dropped  a  cricket  down  her  back  in  cheerful, 

boyish  way, 
And  she  yelled  first;  then  I  yelled  next,   when 

teacher  was  to  pay. 
She  wouldn't  "  coon  "  a  melon,  though  I  asked 

her  oftentimes, 
And  she  ridiculed  my  first  attempts  at  poor  and 

broken  rhymes. 
Oh,  she  was  a  thorough  failure,  as  any  boy  can 

see, 
The  schoolgirl  that  I  hated  when  she  sat  in  front 

of  me. 


84  THE  SCHOOLGIRL   THA  T  I  HA  TED. 


She  beat  me  at  the  lessons  that  we  found  within 

our  books, 
And  when  she  went  above  me  all  scornful  were 

her  looks; 
But  when  the  teacher  whipped  me  I  saw  her  cry 

one  day, 
And  I  said  that  "  girls  is  better  than  what  some 

fellers  say;  " 
And  I  sort  of  half  forgave  her  for  her  lack  of 

hardihood, 
Though  I  even  then  insisted  that  she  really  was 

no  good; 
But  times  have  changed  since  then,  for  I — I'm 

married,  don't  you  see, 
To  the  schoolgirl  that  I  hated  when  she  sat  in 

front  of  me. 


IF  DREAMS    WERE    GOLD. 


IF  DREAMS  WERE  GOLD. 

T  F  dreams  were  gold  I'd  build  for  you, 
•*•     My  love,  my  own,  a  palace  fair 
As  Babylonian  monarchs  knew, 

And  you  should  dwell  right  regnant  there. 
For,  oh,  my  love,  I've  wealth  of  dreams; 

They  press  upon  my  waking  brain. 
Half  glad,  half  sad  that  pressure  seems, 

Like  the  strange  joy  akin  to  pain. 

If  dreams  were  gold,  dear  heart,  dear  heart, 

The  realm  of  beauty  were  your  own, 
And  skilled  designers  of  the  mart 

Should  weave  and  build  for  you  alone. 
For,  oh,  these  dreams  whose  glories  shine 

Within  my  heart,  within  my  soul, 
Their  joy,  alas,  is  only  mine; 

And  I  would  give  to  you  the  whole. 


86  IF  DREAMS    WERE   GOLD. 

If  dreams  were  gold — Oh,  love  of  mine, 

Full  well  I  know,  who  sit  and  dream, 
That  gold  ne'er  bought  one  bliss  divine; 

No  heaven  answers  to  its  gleam. 
Then  since  I  dream — I  know  not  why — 

And  since  the  dreams  are  mine  alone, 
Let  all  the  lack  of  part  supply, 

And  take  the  dreamer  for  your  own. 

Take  the  poor  dreamer,  and  his  dreams 

Shall  bathe  you  in  their  mellow  light, 
As  in  some  vale  the  moonlight  gleams 

About  the  rose  asleep  at  night; 
And  we  shall  richer  be,  I  trow, 

Ay,  richer  by  a  wealth  untold, 
Than  any  riches  we  might  know 

If  dreams  were  gold,  if  dreams  were  gold. 


WHEN    THE   STARS  SLEEP.  87 


WHEN  THE  STARS  SLEEP. 

\\J  HEN  the  little  stars  sleep,  they  rest,  we 

*  *    .  know, 

On  the  cloudland's  misty  pillows, 
Till  the  sun  creeps  over  the  western  world 

And  is  drowned  in  the  ocean  billows; 
Then  straightway  they  peep  from  their  chamber 
out, 

A  watch  on  the  gray  earth  keeping, 
But  the  world  rolls  on,  with  its  toil  and  doubt, 

And  it  cares  not  a  whit  for  their  peeping. 

The  world  rolls  on,  and  its  children  sing 

A  song  to  the  rhythm  of  pleasure, 
Till  the  Player  strikes  a  minor  string 

And  slower,  and  slow,  is  the  measure. 
Passion  and  Happiness,  Joy  and  Shame, 

Join  hands  while  the  world  is  dreaming — 
Still  the  stars  look  down  from  their  heights  of 
flame, 

God's  peace  o'er  the  tumult  beaming. 


SS  WHEN    THE   STARS  SLEEP. 

Then  the  sun  comes  up  o'er  the  eastern  land, 

And  the  stars  creep  back  in  wonder, 
Till  he  tucks  them  away  with  his   great  white 
hand, 

The  sky's  blue  coverlet  under; 
But  all  of  the  day  they  wait  and  wait, 

And  all  of  its  moments  they  measure, 
Till  they  look  again  on  that  strange,  mad  dance — 

The  dance  to  the  rhythm  of  pleasure. 


IN    THE    CITY,    THE    CITY. 


IN  THE  CITY,  THE  CITY. 

T  N  the  city,  the  city,  the  fog  creeps  in 

**•  To  hide  with  its  curtain  the  phantom  of  sin, 

And  the  fever  of  hurry  has  seized  on  all, 

The  rich   and  the  poor,   and  it  holds  them   im 

thrall; 

And  they  race  with  Time  till  the  race  is  run, 
And  the  grave  is  the  goal  that  the  effort  won, 
And  they  push  and  jostle  and  scheme  and  plot 
In  the  city,  the  city,  where  God  is  not. 

In  the  city,  the  city,  I  note  the  care 
That  gnaws  at  a  life  till  the  life  is  bare; 
And  the  children  who  skulk  in  the  alleys,  all 
Are  old  from  their  birth  and  pinched  and  small. 
There  are  women  who  live  in  a  self-made  hell, 
And  their  hearts  beat  on  like  a  funeral  knell; 
And  lives  like  the  nightshade  blossom  and  rot 
In  the  city,  the  city,  where  God  is  not. 


f          or  THE 

{  UNIVERSITY 

V 


90  IN    THE    CITY,    THE    CITY. 


In  the  city,  the  city,  I  long  to  rest 

Where  the  hills  stoop  down  to  the  crimson  west, 

Where  the  brooks  leap  down  from  the  summer's 
snow 

And  the  poppied  fields  are  with  flame  aglow, 

Where  the  squirrels  hide  and  the  brown  quail 
nest 

And  God  sets  a  seal  on  the  soul's  unrest. 

To  the  hills  and  the  mountains,  each  peace- 
breeding  spot, 

I  turn  from  the  city,  where  God  is  not. 


CITY  AND    COUNTRY    WAYS.  91 


CITY  AND  COUNTRY  WAYS. 

T    GUESS  that  I  can  never  git  much  used  to 

city  ways. 
Someway  in  dodging  through  the  streets  I  feel 

I'm  in  a  maze, 
And  when  some  driver  runs  me  down,  or  almost 

does,  before 
I  know  he's  anywhere  around,  I  jump  a  rod  or 

more 
An'  give  a  yell,  the  while  he  laughs  and  says, 

"  You  fool,  git  out!  " 
I  wish  that  I  was  back  again  and  jus'  a  loafin' 

'bout 
An'  knowin'  all  my  neighbors'  biz  an'  tendin'  to 

it,  too, 
The   way   that   country    people   can   an'    almost 

always  do. 


92  CITY  AND    COUNTRY    WAYS. 


When  these  here  waggins  that  they  run  without 

no  horses  on 
Comes  slidin'  up  to  where  I  am  an'  scare  me  till 

I'm  wan, 
I  always  wish  that  I  could  be  back  where  the 

country  lies 
Jus'  sort  o'  reachin'  out  to  God  and  smilin'  to 

His  skies. 

I  want  to  go  back  there  again  an'  hear  the  peo- 
ple say: 
"  Waal,  how's  your  inflooenzy  now,  and  how's 

the  kid  to-day?  " 
Per  city  folks  don't  know  my  biz  an'  sort  o'  run 

it,  too, 

The   way  that   country   people   can   an'    almost 
always  do. 


CITY  AND    COUNTRY    WAYS.  93 


Of  course  I  know  the  city  folks  has  theatres  an' 

all, 
But  when  the  baby's  middlin'  sick  they  hardly 

ever  call; 
They  don't  drop  in  an'  say,  "  B'gee!   D'you  hear 

that  Bilkins'  twins 
Has  took  the  measles? — Punishment,   I   s'pose, 

fer  father's  sins." 
An'  when  my  rheumatiz  comes  on  an'  breaks  my 

needed  rest 
There's  not  a  wave  of  trouble  rolls  across  their 

peaceful  breast. 
An'  so  I  say  I  want  to  go  where  folks  my  biz'll 

run, 
The  way  the  country  folks  I  know  have  almost 

always  done. 


94   THE  OLDEN  DA  YS,  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 


THE  OLDEN  DAYS,  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

E  olden  days,  the  golden  days,  the  days 

when  we  were  young, 
When  life  was  all  a  hymn  of  praise  and  we  the 

ones  who  sung; 
The  laughter  of  that  elder  time  comes  ringing 

back  to  me, 
The  echo  of  a  silvery  chime  from  o'er  a  widening 

sea; 
And  still  I  hear  both  sweet  and  clear  the  voices 

hushed  and  low, 
Like  whispers  from  another  sphere,  of  friends  of 

long  ago. 
Like    some    gray    ghost    my    spirit    strays    the 

ghosts  of  dawn  among 
And  sighs  to  praise  the  olden  days,   the  days 

when  we  were  young. 


I 
THE  OLDEN  DA  KS,  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.      95 


The  olden  days,  the  golden  days — oh,  boyhood's 

heart  of  fire, 
Is  this  the  ending  of  the  ways?     For  this  didst 

thou  aspire? 
A  dream  that  ended  in  a  dream?    A  hope  now 

lying  dead? 
A  little  time  to  toil  and  scheme  with  naught  but 

gloom  o'erhead? 
Is  this  the  answer  life  must  give  unto  its  promise 

fair? 
Hopes,  idle  hopes,  that  may  not  live,  and  faith 

that  fights  despair? 

A  dream  that  never  pain  allays?    A  halting,  lisp- 
ing tongue? 
Oh,  better  far  the  olden  days,  the  days  when  we 

were  young. 


96       THE  OLDEN  DA  YS,  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 


The  olden  days,  the  golden  days  when  care  was 

all  unknown, 
Still  back  to  them  my  memory  strays  and  there 

it  dwells  alone, 
Alone  and  lonely,  yet  'tis  blessed,  for  so  they 

cheer  me  yet, 
The  ones  who  wandered  or  do  rest  unheeding 

care  and  fret. 

Far  fields  of  clover  all  abloom,  low  hills  my  boy- 
hood knew, 
From  the  dim  present  and  its  gloom,  I  turn,  I 

turn  to  you; 
From  the  drear  maze  of  weary  days  with  clouds 

of  doubt  o'erhung, 
I  turn  to  days,  the  golden  days,  the  days  when 

we  were  young. 


TO    THE   PIONEERS   THAT  REMAIN         97 


TO  THE  PIONEERS  THAT  REMAIN. 

T    HAVE  no  word  to  speak  their  praise. 
•*•   Theirs  was  the  deed;  the  guerdon  ours. 
The  wilderness  and  weary  days 

Were  theirs  alone;  for  us  the  flowers. 
They  sowed  the  seed  that  we  might  reap; 

Ours  is  the  fruitage  of  their  years. 
And  now,  behold,  they  drop  to  sleep, 

And  we  have  naught  for  them  save  tears. 

The  flag,  whose  luster  none  may  mar, 

The  brightest  thing  that  loves  the  air, 
See  you  our  California's  star 

Amidst  the  rest?    They  set  it  there. 
What  wonder  that  it  droops  to-day, 

The  while  another  folds  his  hands, 
And,  silent,  floats  away,  away, 

From  golden  sands  to  golden  sands. 


98          TO    THE   PIONEERS    THAT  REMAIN. 

So  they  go  out.     A  little  while, 

And  none  shall  answer  to  the  call. 
Still  shall  the  great  world  weep  or  smile, 

But  they  shall  be  all  silent— all. 
Still  shall  the  life-tides  ebb  and  flow 

And  mark  the  rhythm  of  the  years, 
But  they  no  more  shall  heed  or  know, 

Forgotten  cares  and  hopes  and  fears. 

When  they  are  gone;  when  o'er  one's  clay 

Our  tears  of  long  farewell  shall  fall, 
We'll  pay  our  tribute  then,  and  say: 

"  He  was  the  last,  the  last  of  all. 
Ah,  they  were  stalwart  men,"  we'll  sigh, 

"  The  future's  promise  on  each  brow." 
So  shall  we  whisper  then,  but  I — 

I  pay  that  tribute  here  and  now. 


A    LITTLE,    LITTLE   FELLOW.  99 


A  LITTLE,  LITTLE  FELLOW. 

HERE'S  a  little,  little  fellow,  and  he's  really 

very  small, 
For  he  measures  by  my  table  and  he  isn't  quite 

so  tall; 
And  this  little,  little  fellow  in  the  evening  seeks 

my  knees, 
And  he  says:     "  Now  won't  oo  tell  me  jus'  the 

nicest  'tories,  p'ease?  " 
And  then  I  tell  him  stories  that  I  wouldn't  dare 

to  say 
Are  of  the  usual  run  of  things  we  meet  on  every 

day; 

And  the  last  thing  that  he  asks  me  is,  with  story- 
telling through, 
"  Now  do  you  'pose  when  I'm  growed  up  I'll 

know  as  much  as  you?  " 


100  A    LITTLE,    LITTLE    FELLOW. 


Oh,  little,  little  fellow,  who  sit  upon  my  knee, 

I  know  how  all  misplaced  is  this,  the  faith  you 
rest  in  me. 

My  wisdom  is  a  fiction,  and  my  stock  of  knowl- 
edge small; 

Like  you,  I  guess  the  Father  knows,  and  He  is 
over  all. 

I  stumble  on  the  journey  and  I  falter  as  I  go, 

And  where  the  days  shall  lead  me  I  never,  never 
know. 

But,  th'ough  I'm  all  unworthy  of  your  faith,  it 
cheers  me,  too, 

With  "  Do  you  'pose  when  I'm  growed  up  I'll 
know  as  much  as  you?  " 


A    LITTLE,    LITTLE   FELLOW,  IOI 


Oh,  little,  little  fellow,  I  really  hope  you  will. 

I  want  to  feel  when  I  leave  off  you'll  be  advanc- 
ing still; 

And  if  sometimes  I  half  have  seen  a  light  beyond 
the  mist, 

I  trust  that  by  its  purest  rays  your  pathway  may 
be  kissed. 

But  whatsoe'er  the  years  may  bring,  and  what- 
soe'er their  lore, 

Someway  I'm  hoping  here  to-night,  as  I  have 
hoped  before, 

That  you  may  keep  some  part,  at  least,  of  faith 
in  me  you  knew 

When  oft  you  asked  if  "  when  I'm  growed  I'll 
know  as  much  as  you." 


102  WHO   KNEW    THIS  MAN? 

WHO  KNEW  THIS  MAN  ? 

GOD  touched  his  eyes,  and  then,  no  doubt, 
he  saw 

What  other  men  may  only  vaguely  guess; 
Behind  dumb  sorrow  saw  the  loving  Law, 

And  knew  His  wisdom  sendeth  pain  to  bless. 
He  saw  (though  dimly)  that  behind  the  deed 
There  stands  the  Doer  waiting  the  event; 
So  o'er  the  rocks  where  human  feet  must  bleed 
He  walked,  though  bruised,  with  calm  and  full 
content — 

God  touched  his  eyes. 

God  touched  his  heart,  and,  lo,  he  felt  the  pain 
Of  those  dread  sorrows  borne  by  human  kind; 
To  help  another  counted  surest  gain, 

And  lost  himself  that  he  might  others  find. 
Oh,  ne'er  a  hand  outreached  to  him  in  vain, 
For    "  I  must    love    them "    was    his    tender 

thought; 

He  wiped  the  eyes  bewet  with  trouble's  rain, 
Till      glorious      manhood      for      himself     he 
wrought — 

God  touched  his  heart. 


WHO   KNEW   THIS  MAN?  103 

God  touched  his  soul.    The  clink  of  yellow  gold 

He  counted  nothing  save  to  better  men; 
For  selfish  ends  the  stuff  he  could  not  hold, 

But  saw  dread  want  and  let  it  go  again. 
Alone  he  walked,  yet  blessed  by  all  he  knew; 

Alone  he  lived,  but  hundreds  loved  his  name; 
Into  the  lives  of  careworn  men  he  grew, 

And    saw    and    felt    dull    sorrow's    strenuous 
claim — 

God  touched  his  soul. 

God  touched  his  life.     One  night  they  found  him 

there, 

With  smile  of  welcome  for  the  angel  gray; 
But  Death  himself  could  only  make  him  fair, 

And  peace  was  with  him,  as  he,  dreaming,  lay. 
And  then  they  came,  glad  youth  and  somber  age, 

And  stood  beside  that  humble,  lowly  bed, 
And  tears  fell  fast  that  nothing  might  assuage, 
And,   "Much   I   loved  him;"   it  was  all  they 
said — 

God  touched  his  life. 


104        THE  BOYS  OF  THE  COUNTRY  PRESS. 


THE  BOYS  OF  THE  COUNTRY  PRESS. 

*THHE  boys,  the  boys  of  the  country  press 
•*•   Who    strive    and    toil    while    their    "  pile " 

grows  less, 

Who  take  in  potatoes  and  wood  and  hay 
And  corn  and  mutton  and  beans  for  pay, 
Who  write  heavy  leaders,  and  set  them,  too; 
Who  say,  "  Well,  I  guess  that  these  beans  will 

do 

When  the  flour  gives  out,"  nor  whistle  the  less — 
I  sing  to  the  boys  of  the  country  press. 

I  sing  to  the  boys — God  bless  them  all! 
Who  sit  in  their  sanctums  drear  and  small, 
While  the  partisan  tells  them  why  times  are  bad, 
And  the  merchant  drops  in  to  stop  his  "  ad," 
And  the  parson  explains  theological  things, 
And    the    granger    remarks,    as    his    trophy    he 

brings: 
"  Naow     this     here     pertater's     the     socker,     I 

guess  " — 
I  sing  to  the  boys  of  the  country  press. 


THE  BOYS  OF  THE  COUNTRY  PRESS.        105 

I  sing  to  the  boys  in  a  humble  place 
Who  turn  to  the  days  a  resolute  face, 
Who  feel  that  each  duty  has  something  to  bless, 
Though  they  bow  to  the  sweep  of  the  old  hand- 
press; 

The  boys  who  toil  on  till  their  toiling  is  done, 
As  editor,  foreman  and  typo  in  one, 
With   people   who   curse   them,    and   others   to 

bless— 
I  sing  to  the  boys  of  the  country  press. 

I  sing  to  the  boys — may  a  blessing  fall 
On  the  toilers  who  sit  in  the  sanctums  small! 
And  if  patient  endeavor  is  worthy  its  prize, 
If  the  low  path  of  duty  leads  on  to  the  skies, 
If  there's  never  an  effort,  how  lowly  soe'er, 
But  its  certain  fruition  draws  steadily  near, 
Why,  then,   when   the   shadows  have   folded,   I 

guess 

The  One  who  is  leading  and  guiding  to  bless 
His  subscription  will  pay  to  the  country  press. 


106  WE   SHALL   REST  SWEETLY. 


WE  SHALL  REST  SWEETLY. 

1  \  7  E  shall  lie  down  to  the  infinite  rest, 

E'en  as  the  millions  before  us. 
Sweetly  we'll  sleep  on  the  great  Mother's  breast, 

The  calm,  tender  Mother  that  bore  us. 
Passion  of  loving  and  tumult  of  strife, 

They  shall  be  buried  forever; 
With  white  hands  enfolded  we'll  look  back  to  life 

And  smile  at  its  weary  endeavor. 

We  shall  rest  sweetly — oh,  wonderful  rest! — 
As  a  babe  lies  asleep  on  its  dear  mother's  breast; 
Trials  forgotten  and  errors  confessed, 
We  shall  rest  sweetly,  so  sweetly. 


WE   SHALL   REST  SWEETLY.  IO7 

Haply  through  eyelids  down  drooping  shall  steal 

A  vision  One  sendeth  to  cheer  us, 
White  homes  of  peace  that  the  earth-mists  con- 
ceal, 

Loved  ones  and  vanished  ones  near  us. 
Haply  from  out  of  the  little,  low  room 

A  stairway  and  star-way  shall  lead  us 
To  the  country  of  light  from  the  valley  of  gloom, 

Where  angels  shall  guide  us  and  heed  us. 

We  shall  rest  sweetly  down  under  the  sod, 
Knowing  the  stairway  that  leads  up  to  God, 
The  crystal  white  star-way  by  angel-feet  trod — 
We  shall  rest  sweetly,  so  sweetly. 


108  1  JUDGED   HE    WAS  RIGHT. 


I  JUDGED  HE  WAS  RIGHT. 

F    the    crops    was    good    Brother    Ephrum 

would  say, 

"  Well,  I  jedge  that  the  price'll  be  low,  anyway;" 
An'  if  prices  was  good  he'd  say,  "  Well,  I  fear 
They're    goin'   to    be    down    in   the   stiller   nex' 

year;" 

Ef  ever'thing  went  jest  es  smooth  es  could  be, 
He'd  look  to  the  futur',  an'  trouble  he'd  see, 
An'  he'd  say:     "Well,  per'aps  it's  all  right,  but, 

I  jing! 

I'm  mightily  skeered  what  nex'  season'll  bring." 
That's  the  way  that  he  talked. 

Ef  the  weather  was  windy  he  said  that  he  knowed 
The  buds  frum  the  dern  apple  trees  would  be 

blowed; 

Ef  a  fortnight  went  by  with  no  signs  of  a  rain 
He  said  that  a  drowth  was  a-comin'  again; 


/  JUDGED    HE    WAS  RIGHT.  109 

An'  he  said  that  the  wheat  would  be  half  of  a 

crop, 

Per  the  bugs  was  jus'  certain  to  eat  it  all  up; 
An'  his  fav'rite  expression  was  alters:     "  I  jing! 
I'm  mightily  skeered  what  nex'  season'll  bring." 
It  was  allers  that  way. 

One  day  Brother  Ephrum  was  passin'  away, 
An'  the  fambily  gathered  to  hear  what  he'd  say. 
But  he  didn't  say  much,  jest  heavin'  some  sighs, 
Wile  the  mists  was  a-gatherin'  in  front  of  his 

eyes, 

But  at  last  a  low  whisper  the  fambily  heard, 
An'  o'  course  they  stooped  down  so's  to  catch 

every  word; 

But  all  that  he  uttered  was  only:     "  I  jing! 
I'm  mightily  skeered  what  nex'  season'll  bring." 
An'  I  j  edged  he  was  right. 


HO          A   SONG  FOR   THE  LITTLE   CHAPS. 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  LITTLE  CHAPS. 

T  T  ERE  is  a  song  for  the  little  chaps, 

•*•  •*•      The  little,  wee  fellows  who  don't  know 

why 
The  round  world  turns;  and  I  guess,  perhaps, 

That  neither  do  you  and  neither  do  I. 
Here  is  a  song  for  the  comical  mites, 

Round  and  rosy  and  fat  and  sleek, 
Who  gaze  in  amaze  on  the  world's  queer  sights; 

And  here  is  the  blessing  I  cannot  speak. 

Here  is  a  song  for  the  ones  that  gaze 

In  queer  consternation  on  finger  and  toe, 
And  note  they  are  moving  in  speechless  amaze, 

And  wonder  who  wound  them  and  made  the 

things  go. 
The  dear  little  fellows  who  deem  mother's  breast 

Is  all  of  the  world,  and  a  good  world,  too, 
I  am  singing  to  them,  while  they  lie  at  rest; 

And  really  what  better  is  there  to  do? 


A   SONG  FOR   THE  LITTLE  CHAPS.          Ill 

Here  is  a  song  for  the  babes  that  stand 

Nearer  to  God  than  the  grown  folk  do; 
Fresh  little  buds  from  the  Heaven-land 

Who  deem  that  the  world  is  fresh  and  new. 
Bundles  of  helplessness,  dearer  than  all 

Yet  born  of  the   morning  and  kissed  by  its 

dew; 
Feeble  and  wondering,  blinking  and  small, 

Babes  whom  I  love,  I  am  singing  to  you. 


H2  WE    WEARY   OF  IT  ALL. 


WE  WEARY  OF  IT  ALL. 


\\7  HO  does  not  weary  of  it  all, 
V  *        Of  hope  so  high,  fulfillment  bare; 
The  petty  strife,  the  petty  care, 
And  doubt  which  holds  the  soul  in  thrall? 

Of  little  jealousies  we  feed, 
Of  that  incessant,  spiteful  cry, 
"  I  fear  that  he  is  more  than  I," 

When  both  of  us  are  small  indeed? 

Our  hands  fall  down  like  leaden  things, 
But  soon  we  lift  them  with  a  frown 
And  strive  to  tear  our  brother  down 

From  that  low  height  whereto  he  clings. 

And  "  This,"  we  say,  "  this  ceaseless  strife, 
Which  bids  us  when  one  falls  rejoice,"  — 
But,  oh,  the  vailing  in  the  voice!  — 

"  This  constant  warfare,  this  is  life." 


WE    WEARY   OF  IT  ALL,  113 

And  so  we  build  for  some  poor  prize 
Our  foolish  structure  on  the  sand 
Until  it  crumbles  'neath  our  hand, 

And,  "  God,"  we  cry,  "  our  dreams  are  lies." 

And  if  one  holds  a  clearer  thought, 
A  faith,  a  hope  no  red  earth  bribes, 
"  Oho,"  we  cry,  with  mocking  gibes, 

"  He  is  a  dreamer  and  distraught. 

"  He  is  a  savior.     Crucify  !  " — 
Oh,  mad,  mad  world,  thy  Calvary 
Still  bears  its  bitter  fruit  for  thee, 

And  still  to  love  is  but  to  die. 

Oh,  God,  we  weary  of  it  all, 

Of  this  incessant,  cruel  strife; 

Of  grief,  of  hatred,  aye,  of  life; 
We  weary,  and  we  wait  Thy  call. 


114  A    LULLABY. 


A  LULLABY. 

O  LEEP,  my  little  one,  where  you  float 
^On   the   Dreamland   Sea   in   the   Dreamland 

Boat; 

But  where  is  that  sea  and  whither  you  go, 
Ah,  who  is  so  wise  that  he  ever  may  know? 
There  the  sails  of  the  voyager  onward  are  fanned 
By  the  lullaby  breezes  from  Hushabyland, 
And  the  boat  is  a  cradle  that  swings  to  and  fro, 
But  whither  it  bears  you,  ah,  none  of  us  know. 

Sleep,  my  little  one.     None  may  know 
Whither  the  Dreamboat  saileth, 

But  One  heedeth  ever  wherever  you  go, 
And  His  is  a  love  never  faileth. 


A    LULLABY.  115 


Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep  and  dream 
As  you  float,  float  away  on  the  wonderful  stream 
That  leads  to  the  land  where  the  white  angels  be, 
Which  I,  in  my  blindness,  no  longer  may  see. 
There  the  Angel  of  Love  and  the  Angel  of  Rest 
Shall  cuddle  my  bairnie  so  close  to  the  breast 
That  only  the  thought  of  the  mother  and  me 
Could  bring  you  safe  home  again  over  the  sea. 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep  and  smile, 
Floating,  ah,  none  may  know  whither; 

You  shall  sail  back  again  after  a  while, 
Guided  by  angel  hands  hither. 


Il6  IT  IS    WELL    TO   REMEMER 

IT  IS  WELL  TO  REMEMBER. 

TT  is  well  to  remember  this  thing,  you  know: 
•^Though  the  rains  may  descend  and  the  winds 

may  blow; 
Though  the  skies  may  be  dark  as  the  hour  of 

fate, 

And  our  latter  be  worse  than  our  former  state, 
Yet  over  the  clouds  there  is  always  the  sun, 
And  the  stars  will  appear  when  the  tempest  is 
done; 

And  the  soul  needs  its  woe — 
'Neath  the  rain,  flowers  grow — 
It  is  well  to  remember  this  thing,  you  know. 

It  is  well  to  remember  this  thing,  you  know: 
The  stalwart  may  stand  'neath  the  crudest  blow. 
For  the  soul,  tempest  driven,  must  turn  to  its 

God, 

As  the  rain-beaten  flowers  look  up  from  the  sod; 
And  the  fragrance  of  love  is  the  price  of  our 

pain, 
As  the  blossoms  grow  sweet  'neath  the  blows  of 

the  rain. 

Heigh-ho  and  heigh-ho  ! 
We  weep,  but  we  grow, 
And  it's  well  to  remember  this  thing,  you  know. 


WAITING   FOR   SANTA    CLAUS. 


WAITING  FOR  SANTA  CLAUS. 

nr*HEY  say  he's  but  a  pretty  myth,  the  Santa 

•*•  Glaus  I  knew 

When  I  was  but  a  little  chap,  with  little  notions, 

too; 
They  say  he  doesn't  go  about  with  reindeers  and 

a  sleigh, 
And  lots  and  lots  of  toys  and  things  he  means  to 

give  away. 
But  let  them  say  whate'er  they  please,  I  not  the 

less  must  feel 
That  few  indeed  are  things  of  life  so  very,  very 

real 
As  was  the  joy  of  girl  and  boy — say  not  it  lacked 

a  cause — 
When  mother  tucked  us  in  our  bed  to  wait  for 

Santa  Glaus. 


Il8  WAITING   FOR    SANTA    CLAUS. 


"  Now  go  to  sleep,"  our  mother  said — ah,  still 

the  words  I  hear, — 
But   how    on    earth   could   children  sleep   when 

Santa  Claus  was  near? 
And  so  we  whispered  for  a  time  and  rolled  and 

tumbled  some, 
And   felt   assured   that    Christmas    morn   would 

never,  never  come, 
Until  at  length  the  elves  of  sleep  tied  down  our 

lashes  fast, 

And  gently  we  sailed  o'er  the  sea — the  dream- 
land sea — at  last; 
And  in  the  morning  ere  the  sun  first  peeped  our 

windows  through — 
Don't  tell  me  Santa  didn't  come;   1   guess  we 

children  knew. 


WAITING   FOR   SANTA    CLAUS.  119 


Don't  tell  me  Santa  didn't  come — O,  dreamland 

girl  and  boy, 
It  was  no  fiction  that  you  knew  a  joy  surpassing 

joy. 
White-robed,  I  hear  you  patter  still  across  the 

bedroom  floor 
To  delve  within  the  stockings'  depths  for  toys, 

and  yet  for  more. 

If  this  be  fiction  I  recall,  then  by  my  sager  years 
I  vow  that  they  are  phantoms  all — our  hopes, 

and  e'en  our  fears. 
And  I   am  wishing  here  to-night,  despite  cold 

wisdom's  laws, 
That  mother  now  might  tuck  us  in  to  wait  for 

Santa  Claus. 


120  AS  I    WOULD   BELIEVE. 


AS  I  WOULD  BELIEVE. 

T  WANT  to  keep  thinking  that  God's  as  true, 
•*•   And  the  grass  as  green  and  the  skies  as  blue, 
As  they  used  to  be  when  my  life  was  young 
And  the  bird  of  the  morn  to  my  spirit  sung. 
I  want  to  look  out  through  my  time-dimmed 

eyes 

To  the  ships  of  mist  in  the  sea  of  skies, 
And  feel  that  the  hand  that  guides  them  there 
Will  still  for  my  faltering  footsteps  care. 

For  someway  I  think  as  the  years  grow  old 
And  our  heads  turn  gray  that  our  hearts  grow 

cold; 

And  I'd  like  to  keep  the  old-time  trust, 
Lest  my  soul  shall  turn  to  ashes  and  dust; 
I  would  like  to  hold  my  faith  in  man, 
Nor  his  life's  emotion  with  coldness  scan; 
I  fain  would  believe,  as  I  used  to  do, 
When  my  life  was  young  and  its  skies  were  blue. 


AS  I    WOULD   BELIEVE.  121 

For  I'd  sooner  have  faith  in  one  heart's  truth, 
As  I  did  in  the  days  of  my  golden  youth, 
Than,  knowing  the  world,  lose  faith  and  sigh: 
"  Ah,  hope's  a  delusion  and  life  is  a  lie!  " 
I  would  sooner  believe,  though  it  prove  me  a 

fool, 
That    the    Teacher    is    heeding    our    lessons    in 

school 

Than  moan  to  the  night:     "  It  all  is  vain, 
And  the  object  of  pain  is  only — pain." 

So  I'll  cling  to  the  trust  that  I'm  battling  here — 
Though  it  be  with  a  sigh  or  a  falling  tear — 
For  an  end  that  is  hidden  the  mist  behind; 
And  I'll  dream  that  His  purpose  is  always  kind. 
Let  it  prove  me  a  fool,  if  you  will.     I  say 
That  I'd  sooner  press  on  in  such  simple  way 
Than,   knowing  o'er  much   (which  Is  nothing), 

sigh: 
"  Alas!     I  have  lived,  but  my  life  was  a  lie." 


122  AS  I  LIE    HE  HE    AND    DREAM. 


AS  I  LIE  HERE  AND  DREAM. 

A   S  I  lie  here  and  dream  I  hear 

A  mead'lark  whistling  sweet  and  clear, 
And  straightly  then  his  mate  replies 
From  yonder  where  the  willow  lies. 
"  Oh,  life  is  sweet,"  he  sings  alway; 
"  And  love  is  life,"  she  hastes  to  say. 
And  then  they  sing  together  so 
That  angels  listen  where  they  go — 
As  I  lie  here  and  dream. 

As  I  lie  here  the  river  flows, 
And  whispers  to  me  as  it  goes, 
And  just  one  word  it  seems  to  say, 
Just  "Peace"  and  "Peace"  and  "Peace"  alway. 
And  soon  the  world  grows  hushed  and  still; 
Down  drops  the  sun  behind  its  hill, 
And,  "  Soul,  be  silent,"-  low  I  say, 
"  For  now  is  Nature  going  to  pray  " — 
As  I  lie  here  and  dream. 


AS  I  LIE    HERE    AND    DREAM.  123 

x  '    . 

As  I  lie  here  the  stars  creep  out 
And  wink  their  eyes  and  look  about. 
A  katydid  chirps  out  its  cheer, 
And  then  there  sound,  or  far  or  near, 
The  tiny  voices  of  the  night, 
And  all  the  world  is  hushed  and  white; 
And  straight  are  banished  care  and  doubt — 
They  are  so  small  when  God's  about — 
As  I  lie  here  and  dream. 


124  A    SONG   FOR    THE    UNDER    DOG. 


A   SONG   FOR   THE   UNDER   DOG. 

XT  OW  here  is  a  song  for  the  under  dog,  the 

weak  under  dog  in  the  fight, 
For  though  he  is  down,  and  he's  terribly  down, 

mayhap  he's  the  dog  that  is  right. 
It  isn't  the  cur  who  is  largest,  you  know,  whose 

morals  are  always  the  best, 
And  a  sanctified  pup  with  a  halo,  I  trow,  might 

succumb  in  a  physical  test. 
If  might  could  make  right — but  it  cannot,  you 

see,  and  I  think  you'll  admit  it  were  quaint 
If  a  blacksmith  must  always  the  best  of  men  be, 

and  a  bruiser  must  pose  as  a  saint. 
The  man  who  succeeds  may  succeed  as  a  knave, 

and  in  morals  fly  fearfully  light, 
And  that's  why  your  sympathy  kindly  I  crave  for 

the  weak  under  dog  in  the  fight. 


A    SONG   FOR    THE    UNDER   DOG.  125 


The  martyrs  who  died  for  the  cause  that  they 

deemed  was  surely  the  cause  of  their  God, 
From   whose   wounds,   gaping  widely,   the   life- 
blood   has   streamed   till   it   reddened   the 

blossoming  sod; 
The  martyrs  who   gave — it  was   all  they   could 

do — their  fives  for  the  truth  and  the  right, 
What  were  they,  bethink  you  with  sorrow  and 

rue,  but  man's  under  dogs  in  the  fight? 
Perhaps  in  the  far-away  end — but  who  knows? 

and  your  guess  is  no  better  than  mine, 
For    we    preface    our    knowledge    always    with 

"  suppose  "  as  the  great  verb  "  to  live  "  we 

decline. 
So,  putting  all  guesses  straightway  to  the  rear,  it 

seemeth  most  certainly  right 
To  take  off  our  hats  and  to  heartily  cheer  for  the 

weak  under  dog  in  the  fight. 


126  A    SONG   FOR    THE    UNDER    DOG. 


So  here  is  my  cheer  for  the  poor  under  dog.     He 

is  not  the  strongest,  but  then, 
It  may  hap  that  he's  better  by  far  than  the  dog 

that  chews  him  again  and  again. 
His  stock  may  be  finer,  his  loyalty  proved,  and  I 

think  you  will  hardly  demur 
When  I  say  that  quite  often  the  dog  on  the  top 

is  the  scurviest  kind  of  a  cur. 
And  as  the  rule  runs  in  the  big  canine  world,  so 

it  runs  with  us  humans,  I  know; 
Too  often  some  cur  of  a  man  is  on  top,  with  a 

really  good  fellow  below, 
And  that's  why  I'm  singing  as  best  I  know  how 

this  lame  little  anthem  to-night 
To  the  poor,  hungry  devil  who's  clear  out  of 

luck — the  weak  under  dog  in  the  fight. 


WHA  7  IS  THE  DREAM  IN  MY  BABY'S  EYES?  1*7 


WHAT  IS  THE  DREAM   IN   MY  BABY'S 
EYES? 

\\7  HAT  is  the  dream  in  the  baby's  eyes, 

As  she  lies  and  blinks  in  mute  surprise? 
With  little,  wee  hands  that  aimlessly  go 
Hither  and  thither  and  to  and  fro; 
With  little,   wee  feet  that  shall  lead   her— God 

knows, 

But  a  prayer  from  my  heart  like  a  benison  goes; 
Bundle  of  helplessness,  yonder  she  lies — 
What  is  the  dream  in  my  baby's  eyes  ? 

What  does  she  wonder,  and  what  does  she  know 
That  we  have  forgotten  so  long,  long  ago? 
Bathed  in  the  dawnlight,  what  does  she  see 
That  slow  years  have  hidden  from  you  and  from 

me? 

Out  of  the  yesterdays,  seeth  she  yet 
The  things  that  in  living  she  soon  shall  forget, 
All  that  is  hidden  beyond  the  blue  skies? 
What  is  the  dream  in  my  baby's  eyes? 


1 28  WHA  T  IS  THE  DREA  M  IN  MY  BABY'S  E  YES  f 

Speak  to  me,  little  one,  ere  you  forget: 
What  is  the  thought  that  is  lingering  yet? 
Where  is  the  land  where  the  yesterdays  meet, 
Waiting  and  waiting  the  morrows  to  greet? 
You  wee,  funny  bundle,  who  only  will  blink, 
What  do  you  wonder,  and  what  do  you  think? 
Blue  as  the  moonlight  asleep  in  the  skies, 
What  is  the  dream  in  my  baby's  eyes? 


MY  GRANDSIR&S  ''LET  US  PR  A  K"         129 

MY  GRANDSIRE'S  "  LET  US  PRAY." 

"II  THEN  the  morning  meal  was  ended,  my 
*  grandsire  used  to  say: 

"  Let  us  ask  our  Heavenly  Father  now  to  help 
us  through  the  day." 

Then  he  took  the  well-worn  Bible  from  the  little 
corner  stand, 

And  read  about  the  glories  of  the  happy,  prom- 
ised land. 

There  was  just  a  little  quaver  in  his  voice  when- 
e'er he  read 

How  the  One  who  loved  the  people  had  not 
where  to  lay  His  head, 

But  he  told  in  tone  triumphant  how  the  stead- 
fast win  the  fray; 

Then  closed  the  book  with  reverence,  softly  say- 
ing: "  Let  us  pray." 

Our  Heavenly  Father,  in  Thy  hands 

Our  lives  are  placed  for  keeping. 
Guard  us  in  mercy  through  the  day; 

Watch  over  us  while  sleeping; 
And,  if  we  sin,  in  love  forgive; 

Thou  knowest  all  our  blindness. 
In  darkness  groping,  still  we  trust 

Ourselves  unto  Thy  kindness. 


130         MY  GRANDSIRE'S  "LET  US  PRA  K" 

It  was  a  little  homely  prayer,  old  fashioned  if 

you  will, 
But  in  my  heart  it's  echoing  yet  and  never  will 

be  still. 

Its  only  eloquence  or  charm  was  on  my  grand- 
sire's  face, 
Yet  I'm  certain  that  it  mounted  to  the  Father's 

throne  of  grace; 
And  I  think  the  angels  listened  just  to  hear  the 

reverent  tone 
In   which  that  gray-haired   Christian   made   his 

wants  and  sorrows  known; 
And  though  my  feet  have  wandered  oft  from 

duty's  narrow  way 
Somehow  I  feel  I'm  better  for  my  grandsire's 

"  Let  us  pray." 

Oh,  teach  us,  Father,  that  Thy  way 

Is  always  one  of  beauty, 
And  guide  us  lest  our  feet  shall  stray 

From  out  the  path  of  duty. 
Life's  hill  is  rugged,  Father;  lead, 

Oh,  lead  us  safely  on; 
Fit  thou  Thy  mercy  to  our  need, 

Till  robes  of  light  we  don. 


MY  GRANDSIRE'S  "L£T  US  PRAY."         131 

The  prayer  was  long.     I  still  recall  how  I  would 

squirm  and  wriggle, 
And  at  my  sister  faces  make  till  she  perforce 

must  giggle; 
Yet,   through  the  recklessness   of  youth,   some 

words  of  human  pleading 
Would  touch  the  boy  and  make  him  think  of 

paths  to  Heaven  leading. 
The  kindness  on  that  dear   old  face  was  written 

like  a  blessing; 
The  love  and  peace  that  lingered  there  are  past 

my  poor  expressing, 
But  I  know  that  I  am  better  for  the  words  he 

used  to  say 
When  he  closed  the  Bible  gently,  saying  softly, 

"  Let  us  pray." 

Oh,  Thou,  who  blessed  the  children  here 

And  held  them  in  Thy  keeping, 
Bless  Thou  these  two  to  us  so  dear, 

Thy  mercies  on  them  heaping. 
Through  weary  ways  their  feet  must  go; 

Temptation  will  assail  them, 
But  Thou  wilt  loving  kindness  show 

And  never,  never  fail  them. 


132         MY  GRANDSIR&S  "LET  US  PRA  K" 

"Tis  many  years  since  he  went  home,  by  God's 

own  angels  greeted — 
I  know  in  Heaven's  foremost  row  the  rare  old 

man  is  seated. 
No  more  I  hear  his  loving  words,  no  more  his 

kindly  greeting, 
But  if  I  live  one-half  as  well  there'll  be  another 

meeting. 
My  feet  have  wandered  oftentimes;  I  caused  him 

care  and  worry; 
I'd  like  to  take  his  hand  in  mine  and  tell  him  "  I 

am  sorry;  " 
And  there's  one  thing  I  hope  he  knows  up  in  the 

land  of  day: 
I've  always  been  the  better  for  his  gentle  "  Let 

us  pray." 


WHEN  WHEAT  IS   WORTH  A    DOLLAR.     133 


X 

WHEN  WHEAT  IS  WORTH  A  DOLLAR. 

XI  7  HEN  wheat  is  worth  a  dollar,  with  a  ten- 
*  *  dency  to  rise, 

On  the  horny-handed  granger  there  are  scarcely 

any  flies; 
And  he  often  stops  to  chuckle  'mid  the  labors  of 

the  day, 
And  to  ask  the  passing  stranger,   "  Have  you 

read  the  markets?    Hay!  " 
And  his  smile's  a  combination  of  a  chasm  and  a 

hole 

And  there's  not  a  wave  of  trouble  stirs  his  opti- 
mistic soul, 
As   he   says :     "  They   call    us   hayseeds,    but    I 

reckon  we're  no  guys, 
When  wheat  is  worth  a  dollar,  with  a  tendency 

to  rise." 


134     WHEN   WHEAT  IS   WORTH  A   DOLLAR. 


When  wheat  is  worth  a  dollar — I  wish  that  I 

eould  stand 
Among  the  honest  grangers,  with  a  pitchfork  in 

my  hand; 
With  a  pitchfork  for  an  emblem,  and  a  granary 

full  of  wheat, 
And  a   cinch   upon  that  mortgage   that   would 

seem  amazing  sweet. 
I  would  not  be  a  banker,  nor  with  the  bankers 

stand, 
But  I  yearn  to  be  a  granger  of  the  horny-handed 

brand; 
Then    my    hayseed    jubilate    would    uplift    the 

vaulted  skies — 
When  wheat  is  worth  a  dollar,  with  a  tendency 

to  rise. 


WHEN   WHEAT  IS   WORTH  A   DOLLAR.     135 


When  wheat  is  worth  a  dollar  and  still  is  going 

up; 
When  the  farmer  drinks  the  nectar  Nature  pours 

into  his  cup; 
When  his  smile  is  broad  and  beaming,  and  his 

laugh  is  like  a  roar 
As  he  sees  the  golden  gleaming  of  the  wheat  he 

has  in  store, 
Then  I  hope  congratulations  are  a  thing  that's 

rather  neat, 
From  a  man  who  isn't  farming  and  is  mighty 

short  of  wheat, 
For  be  sure  that  I  extend  them,  as  this  pean  will 

advise, 
When  wheat  is  worth  a  dollar,  with  a  tendency 

to  rise. 


THE  LAND  WHERE  OUR  DREAMS  COME  TRUE. 

THE  LAND  WHERE  OUR  DREAMS 
COME  TRUE. 

TN  the  land  where  our  dreams  come  true,  little 
"*•  one, 

In  the  land  where  our  dreams  come  true, 
We  will  bathe  in  the  waters  of  Aidenn  that  run 
From  the  glorified  land,  from  the  land  of  the  sun, 
And  we'll  joy  in  the  prize  that  our  life-effort  won, 

In  the  land  where  our  dreams  come  true, 
Little  one, 

In  the  land  where  our  dreams  come  true. 

There  are  those  whom  we  loved  in  the  long,  long 

ago, 

In  the  land  where  our  dreams  come  true, 
And  we'll  look  in  their  eyes  with  the  lovelight 

aglow, 
And  we'll  walk  by  their  side   where  the  calm 

waters  flow, 
With  a  peace  in   our  hearts  that  the  glorified 

know, 
In  the  land  where  our  dreams  come  true, 

Heigh-ho, 
In  the  land  where  our  dreams  come  true. 


THE  LAND  WHERE  OUR  DtfEAMS  COME  TRUE. 

The  hopes  that  have  perished  shall  waken  again, 

In  the  land  where  our  dreams  come  true; 
They  will  troop  to  our  side  from  the  yesterdays' 

fen, 

From  the  valley  of  doubting,  the  shadowy  glen; 
They  will  come  with  a  blessing  to  children  of 

men, 
In  the  land  where  our  dreams  come  true, 

Do  you  ken, 
In  the  land  where  our  dreams  come  true. 

So  we'll  turn  from  the  past  and  its  wrack,  dear 

heart, 

To  the  land  where  our  dreams  come  true; 
Where  the   miles   shall  not  sunder  or  hold  us 

apart, 

But  the  hope  that  we  knew  into  being  shall  start, 
And  to  know  and  to  love  is  the  ultimate  art, 
In  the  land  where  our  dreams  come  true, 

Dear  heart, 
In  the  land  where  our  dreams  come  true. 


138     HE  HE'S  TO  THE  MAN  WHO  RISES  AGAIN. 


HERE'S  TO  THE  MAN  WHO  RISES 
AGAIN. 

XT  OW  here's  to  the  man  who  rises  again! 

*^      I  know  that  the  battle  is  long; 

We  dream  of  the  morrows,  and  dreaming  is  vain, 

Downbeat  in  the  maddening  throng. 
We  walk  and  we  stumble;  we  fall  as  we  go, 

And  our  hopes  are  but  written  in  vain, 
But  we  still  may  arise  from  the  heaviest  blow, 
Stand  stalwart,  erect,  with  our  face  to  the  foe; 
And  there's  no  one  more  worthy  of  honor,   I 
trow, 

Than  the  man  who  arises  again. 

We  are  down  in  the  valley;  the  mists  are  about, 

The  pitfalls  lie  close  at  our  feet; 
We  send  our  Ideals  to  turmoil  and  rout, 

And  many's  the  failure  we  meet; 


HER&S  TO  THE  MAN  WHO  RISES  AGAIN.     139 

We  are  crushed  in  the  struggle;  we're  weary  and 

worn, 

And  we  feel  that  our  hopes  are  in  vain. 
But  still  in  the  battle  we're  held  and  upborne 
By  the  thought  that  not  vainly  we  sigh  and  we 

mourn; 
Though  the  burden  of  failure  in  anguish  we've 

worn, 
We  may  rise  to  our  stature  again. 

To  throw  and  to  lose  is  a  wearisome  tale, 

A  tale  that  is  old  as  the  sun; 
But  who  dares  to  write  that  the  thrower  shall  fail 

Till  the  sum  of  his  throwing  is  done? 
In  the  uttermost  failure  success  may  be  writ, 

For  we  stumble,  the  height  to  attain ; 
In  the  wardrobe  of  nature  there's  not  a  misfit, 
And  the  height  over  yonder  is  ours,  I  submit, 
If,  crushed  and  downfallen,  we  still  strive  for  it, 

And  rise,  though  we're  stricken,  again. 


140  HER   FAITH  NEVER   FALTERS. 


HER  FAITH  NEVER  FALTERS. 

TV /T  Y  little  daughter  comes  to  me, 

And  whispers,  "  I  am  sorry;  " 
And  I — I  take  her  on  my  knee 

And  tell  her  not  to  worry; 
And  then  I  kiss  her,  and  she  knows 

How  tenderly  I  love  her. 
We're  just  two  children,  I  suppose; 

I  not  a  whit  above  her. 

And  then  she  lays  her  cheek  to  mine, 
And  says,  "  I  love  you  dearly;  " 

And  in  my  eyes  the  teardrops  shine—- 
My heart  will  act  so  queerly. 

She  says,  "  My  papa  is  so  good," 
Though  I'm  unworthy  of  her. 

Dear  little  type  of  maidenhood, 
I  love  her,  oh,  I  love  her. 


HER   FAITH  NEVER   FALTERS. 

I  think  sometimes  I'd  like  to  go 

And  tell  her  "  I  am  sorry," 
For,  oh,  my  feet  do  falter  so 

'Mid  life's  unending  worry. 
Dear,  loyal  heart!     Suppose  I  should 

(I  have  done  so — or  nearly), 
She'd  only  say,  "  My  papa's  good. 

I  love  him,  oh,  so  dearly." 

So,  'mid  the  storm  of  life  and  years, 

My  little  daughter's  kisses 
And  loyal  faith  have  dried  my  tears, 

And  cares  exchanged  for  blisses. 
And,  as  I  write,  if  tears  will  start,- 

They're  tears  of  gladness  merely, 
For  these  words  bless  my  weary  heart 

"  I  love  my  papa  dearly." 


142         WHEN  I   GO    OUT  ON  MY    WHEEL. 


WHEN  I  GO  OUT  ON  MY  WHEEL. 

TIT  HEN  I  go  out  on  my  wheel,  the  world 

*  *    Goes  scurrying  past,  as  the  Hand  unfurled 
The  leagues  of  hurrying  brown  or  green; 
And  I  see  the  little  white  houses  between 
The  hedges  and  trees,  and  the  air  strikes  hard 
On  my  lifted  face,  and  the  odor  of  nard, 
Of  myrtle  and  roses,  exalts  like  wine, 
As  I  ride  on  my  wheel  and  the  world  is  mine. 

When  I  go  out  on  my  wheel,  the  town 

Fades  away — fades  away  into  stretches  of  brown; 

And  I  hear  the  murmur  of  brooks  that  run 

Through  the  shady  nooks  till  they  greet  the  sun. 

And  it's  ho!  oho!  for  the  joy  I  feel 

As  I  ride,  as  I  glide,  on  my  steed  cf  steel; 

And  the  day  and  its  moments  are  all  divine, 

As  I  ride  on  my  wheel  and  the  world  is  mine. 


WHEN  I  GO    OUT  ON  MY   WHEEL.        H3 

When  I  go  out  on  my  wheel,  I  know 

That  back  to  the  toil  and  the  grind  I  must  go; 

But  I  do  not  mind  as  the  moments  fly, 

For  the  world  is  fair  and  its  child  am  I. 

So  it's  ho!  for  the  hedges  that  glide  and  glide, 

And  it's  ho!  for  the  brooklets  that  hide  and  hide, 

And  it's  ho!  for  the  day  with  its  smile  benign, 

When  I  ride  on  my  wheel  and  the  world  is  mine. 


144        A    SONG  FOR   THE  RANK  AND  FILE. 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  RANK  AND  FILE. 

"V  TOT  to  the  brave  commanders  who  ordered 

*"  the  boys  to  go 

Where  the  hail  of  death  beat  on  them  and  the 

blood  of  the  brave  must  flow; 
Not  to  the  ones  who  wore  the  straps,  though 

theirs  is  the  hero's  claim, 
And  their  names  and  their  deeds  are  written  on 

the  wonderful  scroll  of  Fame, 
But  to  those,  unsung,  unhonored,  who  marched 

at  their  country's  call 
Where  lives  went  out  to  the  battle  shout  and  the 

flag  was  a  funeral  pall; 
To   these,    the    humbler   heroes,    who    marched 

where  their  duty  lay; 

To  the  soldiers  who  bore  the  muskets,  I'm  sing- 
ing a  song  to-day. 


A   SONG  FOR   THE  RANK  AND  FILE.       145 


To  the  soldiers  who  bore  the  muskets — for  them 
not  a  hope  of  fame, 

Nor  the  witch'ry  that  lingers  ever  in  that  mys- 
tical spell,  a  name. 

No  dream  of  the  future  lured  them,  nor  the  heat 
of  ambition's  breath, 

As  they  shouldered  their  muskets  calmly  and 
marched  to  the  valley  of  death. 

Where  the  Cuban  suns  beat  on  them,  in  the 
drench  of  the  tropical  rain, 

Or  stricken  by  Spanish  bullets,  they  took  up  the 
burden  of  pain. 

They  saw  but  their  duty,  and  did  it — no  hope  of 
the  laurel  or  bay, 

And  so  to  the  boys  with  the  muskets  I'm  sing- 
ing a  song  to-day. 


146       A   SONG  FOR   THE  RANK  AND  FILE. 


The  world  has  praise  for  its  heroes,  a  chosen 

and  honored  few, 
But  I  say  that  they  all  are  heroes,  the  boys  who 

have  worn  the  blue. 

They  went  at  their  country's  summons;  they  of- 
fered their  gift  of  life, 
And  what  could  the  ones  we  honor  do  more  in 

the  nation's  strife? 
Unnamed  in  the  "  late  dispatches,"  and  weary 

and  worn  the  while, 
They  marched  where   the  bullets   whistled,   the 

men  of  the  rank  and  file; 
So  others  may  chant  their  praises,  the  chosen 

and  honored  few, 
I  sing  to  the  boys  with  the  muskets — the  men  in 

the  unstrapped  blue. 


HUSHABY,    LULLABY.  147 


HUSHABY,    LULLABY. 

T  T  USHABY,  lullaby,  my  little  men; 

•^  -^  The  sandman  conies,  but  he  goes  again. 

Hushaby,  lullaby,  little  wee  maids; 

The  round  world  turns  and  it  seeks  the  shades, 

And  Sleep  comes  stealing  adown,  adown, 

And  he  closes  the  eyes  of  blue  or  brown, 

And  he  weaves  his  net  and  it  holds  you  thrall — 

Hushaby,  lullaby,  little  ones  all. 

Hushaby,  lullaby.     One  little  star 

Is  peeping  adown  from  afar,  so  far 

That  its  great  white  light  is  a  slender  beam 

When   it   reaches   the   world   where   the   babies 

dream, 

A  slender  beam  that  can  only  kiss 
The  little  wee  heads — for  it  came  for  this — 
Ere  it  dies  away  in  a  glimmer  small — 
Hushaby,  lullaby,  little  ones  all. 


148  HUSHABY,    LULLABY. 

Hushaby,  lullaby.     Life  is  a  maze 

Where   blindly  we   wander  through   wearisome 

days, 
Through    wearisome    days    when    the    spirit    is 

numb, 

Till  out  of  the  shadows  the  little  ones  come. 
Then  mothers  stoop  to  them  to  kiss  and  caress, 
And  the  souls  of  the  fathers  they  gladden  and 

bless; 
For  straight  from  the  heavens  God's  angels  they 

call— 
Hushaby,  lullaby,  little  ones  all. 


IN  OUR   LAND    OF  CALIFORNIA.  149 


IN    OUR   LAND   OF   CALIFORNIA. 

T  17  HEN  the  daylight  all  has  faded  and  the 

*  *  sunbeams  are  at  rest, 

When  the  last  faint  streak  of  crimson  dies  to 

ashen  in  the  west; 
When  the  god  of  day  and  glory  hides  his  face 

behind  the  world, 
And  the  earth  is  like  a  maiden  in  a  mantle  dew- 

impearled, 
Then  beyond  the  untrod  spaces,  and  beyond  the 

misty  bars, 

In  their  distant,  distant  places  shine  the  multi- 
tude of  stars; 
But  their  utmost,  tender  splendor,  it  is  showered 

on  us  here, 
In  our  land  of  California,  in  our  Summer  land 

of  cheer. 


ISO  IN  OUR  LAND    OF   CALIFORNIA. 


There  is  glory  in  our  sunlight  as  it  sparkles  o'er 

the  plain, 
As  it  laughs  adown  the  valleys  till  the  valleys 

laugh  again; 

But  it's  only  when  the  starlight  shimmers,  glim- 
mers down  the  world 
That  back  unto  their  hidden  home  the  brood  of 

trouble's  hurled. 
For  who  could  harbor  discontent  when  comfort's 

everywhere, 
When  peace  is  in  the  tranquil  night  and  peace  is 

in  the  air; 
When  every  breeze  that  fans  your  cheek  seems 

whispering,  "  Rest  is  here," 
In  our  land  of  California,  in  our  Summer  land 

of  cheer. 


IN  OUR  LAND    OF  CALIFORNIA.  15* 


That  gray  old  mantle  yonder,  with  its  sparkling 

diamonds  set, 
Beyond  its  utmost  border  is  the  Land  of  Care 

and  Fret; 
And  every  star  that  sparkles  there  is  where  an 

angel  stands, 
And  every  breeze  that  whispers  bears  a  blessing 

from  His  hands. 
But  in  the  Eastern  country,  lo!  the  mists  are  in 

the  way, 
And  so  the  benediction's  lost,  the  blessing  goes 

astray; 
But  I  think  if  man  will  listen  he  will  hear  that 

blessing  here, 
In  our  land  of  California,  in  our  Summer  land 

of  cheer. 


152      REACH  DOWN  FROM  YOUR  HEAVEN. 


REACH   DOWN  FROM  YOUR  HEAVEN. 

EACH  down,  reach  down  from  your  heaven, 

My  love  whom  I  loved  so  well, 
For  my  day  sinks  down  to  its  even, 
And  the  darkening  shadows  dwell 
Where  my  heart  like  a  monk  is  sitting 

Mid  the  wrack  of  its  wasted  years, 
And  my  soul  of  its  hopes  is  knitting 
A  shroud  that  is  bleached  by  tears. 

Reach  down,  reach  down  from  your  heaven, 

For  I  dream  in  the  mist-hid  sphere, 
The  God  to  your  soul  hath  given 

The  right  of  returning  here, 
And,  lo!  when  the  twilight  presses 

Its  seal  on  my  dreamy  eyes, 
You  come  with  the  old  caresses, 

And  care  from  my  spirit  flies. 


REACH  DOWN  FROM   YOUR  HEAVEN.     153 

They  say,  where  the  white  rose  blooming 

Smiles  back  to  the  smile  of  its  God, 
You  lie  in  the  daytime  and  glooming, 

Asleep  'neath  the  life-giving  sod; 
But  I  fathomed  the  lie  that  they  told  me 

When  you  came  in  the  even's  shade 
To  kiss  and  caress  and  enfold  me, 

With  your  heart  to  my  warm  heart  laid. 

Then  the  years  turned  back  in  their  creeping, 

And  the  past  was  again  to-day, 
And  I  knew  that  you  waked  from  your  sleeping 

To  lighten  the  weary  way 
I  walk  through  the  tear-wet  valley 

Which  leads  to  the  hills  of  light, 
Where  the  angels  of  happiness  rally 

And  His  smile  breaks  the  seal  of  the  night. 

Reach  down,  reach  down  from  your  heaven, 

Lest  my  soul  in  its  helplessness  fall, 
And  I  take  of  the  world's  dread  leaven 

That  poisons  the  spirit  of  all. 
Then  whisper  me  upward  and  onward, 

Though  they  tell  me  my  dream  is  a  lie; 
For  the  soul  that  cleaves  starward  and  sunward 

Shall  live  though  the  universe  die. 


154  THE   POOR   LITTLE    BIRDIES. 


THE   POOR   LITTLE   BIRDIES. 

'T^HE  poor  little  birdies  that  sleep  in  the  trees, 
•*•  Going    rockaby,     rockaby,     lulled    by    the 

breeze; 

The  poor  little  birdies,  they  make  me  feel  bad, 
Oh,  terribly,  dreadfully,  dismally  sad, 
For — think  of  it,  little  one;  ponder  and  weep — 
The  birdies  must  stand  when  they  sleep,  when 
they  sleep; 

And  their  poor  little  legs — 

I  am  sure  it  is  so— 
They  ache,  and  they  ache, 

For  they're  weary,  you  know. 
And  that  is  the  reason  that  far  in  the  night 
You  may  hear  them  say  "  Dear-r-r!  "  if  you  lis- 
ten just  right, 
For  the  poor  little  birdies  would  sleep  on  the 

bough, 

And  they  want  to  lie  down,  but  they  do  not 
know  how. 


THE   POOR   LITTLE   BIRDIES.  155 

Just  think  of  it,  darling;  suppose  you  must  stand 
On    those    little    brown    legs,    all    so    prettily 

planned; 
Suppose  you  must  stand  when  you  wanted  to 

sleep, 
I  am  sure  you  would  call  for  your  mama  and 

weep, 
And  your  poor  little  legs,  they  would  cramp,  I 

have  guessed, 
And  your  poor  little  knees,  they  would  call  for  a 

rest; 

And  you'd  cry,  I  am  sure, 
For  so  weary  you'd  be; 
And  you'd  want  to  lie  down, 
But  you  couldn't,  you  see. 
And  that  is  the  reason  why  we  should  feel  bad 
For  the  poor  little  birdies,  who  ought  to  be  glad; 
For  they  want  to  lie  down  as  they  sleep  on  the 

bough; 
They  want  to  lie     own,  but  they  don't  know 

how. 


THE  BROOK  THA  T  RAN  DOWN  TO  THE  HILL. 


THE  BROOK  THAT  RAN  DOWN  TO  THE 
MILL. 

T   MET  you  that  night  at  the  charity  ball, 
•••     And  you  looked  like  a  fairyland  queen, 
And  your  smile  was  so  gracious  it  held  me  in 
thrall, 

A  most  willing  captive,  I  ween; 
And  I   wondered,   I  wondered — perhaps  it  was 
wrong-^- 

If  then  you  remembered  them  still, 
The  days  when  we  waded  the  afternoons  long 

In  the  brook  that  ran  down  to  the  mill. 

I  am  only  a  scribe,  with  a  pencil  for  fate, 

While  you  are  a  fairyland  queen, 
But  someway  I  thought  as  the  moments  grew 
late 

That  perhaps  you  remembered  that  scene, 
When  two  little  children,  with  little  bare  legs, 

And  voices  with  laughter  athrill, 
Dug   deep   in  the  sand  for  the  brown   turtle's 
eggs, 

Near  the  brook  that  ran  down  to  the  mill. 


THE  BROOK  THA  T  RAN  DOWN  TO  THE  MILL. 

And  I  wondered,   I  wondered — perhaps  it  was 
wrong — 

If  you  wouldn't  be  willing,  you  know, 
To  wander  again  to  that  country  of  song 

Where  the  barefooted  little  ones  go; 
And  I  would  go  with  you;  my  pencil  should  fall, 

And  my  fancy  should  rest  at  its  will, 
While  with  pin-hooks  we'd  fish  for  the  "shiners" 
o'ersmall 

In  the  brook  that  ran  down  to  the  mill. 

Oh,  queen  of  the  fairyland,  little  bare  feet 

Are  hardly  a  dress-party  theme, 
But,  someway,  to  me  is  their  memory  sweet, 

As  their  patter  I  hear  in  my  dream; 
And — honest — whatever  life's  glories  may  be, 

Would  you  not  barter  all  for  the  thrill 
That  you  knew  in  the  past  when  you  waded  with 
me 

In  the  brook  that  ran  down  to  the  mill? 


158  AS    WE  JOG    ON   TOGETHER. 


AS   WE  JOG   ON   TOGETHER. 

T  LOVE  my  love,  and  she  loves  me. 
•*•     We  jog  along  together 
O'er  rocky  upland,  flowery  lea, 

Through  fair  or  stormy  weather. 
And  if  the  day  bring  naught  of  cheer, 

Or  if  the  way  be  weary, 
'Tis  all  forgotten  when  she's  near, 

My  dearie,  oh,  my  dearie. 

Sometimes  the  mists  about  us  close, 

Of  doubt  and  boding  blended, 
And  where  we  journey  neither  knows, 

Nor  where  the  journey's  ended. 
Yet  do  we  but  the  closer  press, 

While  fogs  creep  o'er  the  heather, 
And  still  we  feel  that  life  doth  bless, 

As  we  jog  on  together. 


AS    WE  JOG   ON   TOGETHER.  159 

A  little  homely  home  of  cheer; 

Two  hearts  that  love  me  dearly— 
If  this  bring  not  a  heaven  here, 

I  know  it  does  it  nearly. 
So  if  the  suns  shall  shine  or  hide, 

Be  fair  or  foul  the  weather, 
I'm  full  content  the  end  to  bide 

While  we  jog  on  together. 


l6o        "J/y  BROTHER* LL  BE  ALL  RIGHT' 


"  MY  BROTHER'LL  BE  ALL  RIGHT." 

T  ALWAYS  was  in  those  old  days  the  family's 

A  blackest  sheep; 

Somehow  I  couldn't  curb  the  blood  that  in  my 
veins  would  leap. 

My  cousins  walked  a  straight-hewn  path  accord- 
ing to  a  rule, 

And  rarely  swore,  and  never  fought  nor  "  hook- 
ey "  played  at  school; 

And  all  my  uncles  shook  their  heads  and  said, 
"  He  will  go  bad; 

There  never  was  more  cussedness  boiled  down 
in  one  small  lad." 

But  whatsoever  they  all  vowed,  and  whatsoe'er 
my  plight, 

My  sister  stood  right  up  and  said,  "  My  brother'll 
be  all  right." 


<MY  BROTHER* LL  BE  ALL  RIGHT."         l6t 


She  didn't  say,   "  My  brother  is,"   you  mind- 
she  didn't  dare; 
But  when  she  said,  "  My  brother'll  be,"  I'd  voW 

right  then  and  there 
That  though  I   fell  and  barked  my  shins  until 

they  were  a  sight, 
I'd  rise  again  and  prove  at  last  that  that  dear 

girl  was  right. 
And  so  her  trust  would  follow  me,  for  boys,  you 

know,  like  men, 
Whene'er  they   fall   need   human   faith   to   pick 

them  up  again; 
And  few  I  think  are  ever  lost  or  conquered  in 

the  fight 
Who  somewhere  know  one  soul  that  says,  "  My 

brother'll  be  all  right." 


162         "MY  BROTHER' LL  BE  ALL  RIGHT* 


Sometimes  in  that  sweet  hour  before  the  daylight 

all  had  fled 
My  sister'd  creep  into  my  arms  and  rest  her  bon- 

nie  head 
Upon    my    shoulder,    and   she'd   tell    of   all   she 

dreamed  for  me. 
Oh,  loyal  heart  of  foolish  faith!     Through  eyes 

bedimmed  I  see 
The  eyes  of  blue  her  soul  looked  through,  the 

face  with  love  aglow, 
And  scarcely  will  my  heart  believe  'twas  long,  so 

long  ago, 
That  golden  hour;  for  still  I  hear  as  'twere  but 

yesternight 
The    words    she    whispered    in    my    ear,    "  My 

brother'll  be  all  right." 


'MY  BROTHER' LL  BE  ALL  RIGHT."        163 


'Twas  long  ago;  the  frost  of  Time  has  cooled  my 

youthful  blood; 
No  more  it  hurries  to  and  fro,  nor  runs  a  restless 

flood. 
The  miles  are  wide  'twixt  her  and  me;  the  years 

ar3  long  between; 
She  walks  where  earth's  asleep  in  white,  and  I 

where  it  is  green; 
Yet  does  her  faith  still  urge  me  on,  and  whisper 

me,  "  Be  true," 
To  fight  my  fight,  and,  stumbling  oft,  the  battle 

yet  renew; 
And  I  reply:     Oh,  sister  mine,  though  dark  may 

be  the  night, 
I'll  justify  the  trust  that  said,  "  My  brother'll  be 

all  right." 


164  KNEE-DEEP  IN   CLOSER. 


\ 

KNEE-DEEP    IN    CLOVER. 

TV"  NEE-DEEP  in  clover  the  way  I  used  to  be, 
When   earth   was   more   like    Heaven    than 

now  it  seems  to  me; 
When  the  bees  were  droning  'round  me  as   if 

they  didn't  care 
To  work  too  hard  with  laziness  just  pulsing  in 

the  air; 
When  skies  were  clear,  so  crystal  clear  that  I 

could  look  up  through 

And  sort  of  fancy  that  I  saw  the  things  the  an- 
gels do; 

When  far  or  near, 
And  rising  clear, 
The  notes  of  birds  fell  on  my  ear; 
With  chipmunks  sitting  on  the  fence  and  talking 

back  to  me — 
Knee-deep  in  clover  the  way  I  used  to  be. 


KNEE-DEEP  IN   CLOVER.  165 

Knee-deep     in     clover,     with     robins     chirping 
'round, 

And  all  the  world  about  me  just  running  o'er 
with  sound; 

Fellow  whistling  yonder  merry  as  could  be; 

River  dimpling  in  the  sun  as  if  'twere  wooing 
me; 

Fragrance    of    the    blossoms — nothing    like    it 
now — 

Nature  smiling  on  me  as  she's  forgotten  how; 
A  dream  of  peace, 
To  never  cease 
Till  life  gives  memory  her  release; 

With  gladness  whispering  in  my  heart  and  fill- 
ing, thrilling  me — 

Knee-deep  in  clover  the  way  I  used  to  be. 


1 66      TENDERLY   TAKE   AND   HOLD    THEM. 


TENDERLY    TAKE    AND    HOLD    THEM. 


strong  right  hand,  O,  my  Father, 
Reach  down  and  tenderly  press 
To  the  eyes  where  the  teardrops  gather; 

Reach  down  with  a  soft  caress, 
And  through  the  dark  night  spaces 
Let  dreams  like  the  angels  come, 
To  gladden  with  memory's  graces 
The  hearts  by  their  pain  made  numb. 

With  eyes  that  are  wistful  and  weary 

They  look  to  the  shadowy  veil, 
And  still  are  the  long  hours  dreary, 

And  still  do  the  visions  fail. 
Then  come  when  the  night's  gray  streamers 

Float  back  from  the  faded  day, 
And  gladden  the  pale-faced  dreamers 

And  soothe  all  their  trials  away. 


TENDERLY   TAKE   AND   HOLD    THEM.      167 

Where  the  chasms  of  life  are  yawning 

They  struggle  and  falter  and  fall; 
They  stand  with  their  eyes  to  the  dawning, 

But  darkness  is  over  them  all. 
Then  tenderly  take  and  hold  them, 

As  mothers  their  babes  caress; 
In  the  arms  of  Thy  pity  enfold  them, 

And  soothe  them,  and  comfort,  and  bless. 

As  the  breeze  to  the  toiler  seemeth; 

As  the  dews  to  the  heart  of  the  rose; 
As  love  to  the  maiden  that  dreameth; 

As  the  rains  that  the  desert  knows, 
So  come  when  the  world  lies  sleeping, 

Soft  rocked  in  the  cradle  of  rest, 
Thy  loved  in  Thy  strong  arms  keeping 

Close,  close  to  Thine  infinite  breast. 


168          WHEN    THE    OLD   MAN  DREAMED. 


WHEN    THE    OLD    MAN    DREAMED. 

SOMETIMES  'long  after  supper  my  grand- 

^  sire  used  to  sit 

Where  the  sunbeams  through  the  window  things 

of  beauty  liked  to  knit, 
And  he'd  light  his  pipe  and  sit  there  in  a  sort  of 

waking  dream, 

While  to  bathe  his  form  in  glory  seemed  the  sun- 
light's pretty  scheme; 
And  then,  whatever  happened,  he  didn't  seem  to 

see, 
And  a  smile  lit  up  his  features  that  used  to  puzzle 

me, 
And  I  would  often  wonder  what  pleasant  inner 

theme 
Had  caused  that  strange  and  tranquil  smile  when 

grandpa  used  to  dream. 


WHEN    THE    OLD   MAN  DREAMED.         169 


Sometimes,  though,  when  I'd  listen  I'd  hear  the 
good  man  sigh, 

And  once  I'm  almost  sure  I  saw  the  moisture  in 
his  eye, 

But  whether  he  would  smile  or  sigh,  he  didn't 
seem  to  see 

The  things  that  happened  'round  him,  and  that's 
what  puzzled  me. 

With  the  wreaths  of  smoke  ascending  as  the  twi- 
light gathered  there, 

The  shadows  crept  about  him  in  the  old  arm- 
chair, 

And  through  the  evening  darkness  I  could  see 
the  fitful  gleam 

From  the  embers  in  his  lighted  pipe  when  grand- 
pa used  to  dream. 


170         WHEN   THE    OLD   MAN  DREAMED. 


I  used  to  wonder  in  those  days.     I  wonder  now 

no  more, 
For  now  I  understand  the  thing  that  puzzled  me 

of  yore, 
And  I  know  that  through  the  twilight  and  the 

shadows  gathering  fast 
Came  unto  my  grandsire,  dreaming,  the  visions 

of  the  past. 
The  boys  who  played  with  him  were  there  within 

that  little  room; 
His  mother's  smile  no  doubt  lit  up  the  darkness 

and  the  gloom; 
Again  he  ran  and  leaped  and  played  beside  an 

Eastern  stream; 
The  ones  he  loved  were  there,   I  know,   when 

grandpa  used  to  dream. 


WHEN    THE    OLD   MAN  DREAMED.         I? I 


And  so  he  smiled — and  then  she  stood,  his  dear- 
est, at  his  side, 

With  the  glow  of  youth  upon  her,  red-lipped  and 
laughing-eyed, 

And  he  told  the  old,  sweet  story,  and  she  lis- 
tened, nothing  loth, 

And  dreams  of  hope  were  written  in  the  happy 
hearts  of  both; 

And  then,  by  strange  transition,  he  saw  her 
pulseless  lie — 

And  'twas  then  I  viewed  the  moisture  in  the  cor- 
ner of  his  eye. 

Old  friends  were  gathered  round  him,  though 
they'd  crossed  death's  mystic  stream, 

In  that  hour  of  smiles  and  sighing  when  my 
grandsire  used  to  dream. 


1 72          WHEN    THE    OLD   MAN  DREAMED. 


Oh,  glad,  sad  gift  of  memory  to  call  our  dear 
ones  back 

And  win  them  from  their  narrow  homes  to 
Time's  still  beaten  track! 

Yours  was  the  power  my  grandsire  held  while 
twilight  turned  to  night; 

Through  you  his  loved  returned  again  and 
blessed  his  longing  sight; 

And  I  no  longer  wonder,  when  his  dreaming  I 
recall, 

At  smiles  and  sighs  succeeding  while  the  shad- 
ows hid  us  all, 

For,  while  my  pencil's  trailing  and  I've  half  for- 
got my  theme, 

I,  too,  am  seeing  visions,  as  my  grandsire  used 
to  dream. 


'I'M  PRAYING    FOR    YOU."  173 


"I'M    PRAYING    FOR    YOU." 

HERE'S  a  quaint  little  letter  that  lies  on 

my  stand, 

A  quaint  little  letter  in  old-fashioned  hand. 
It  is  lacking  somewhat  in  rhetorical  grace, 
And  its  capital  letters  at  times  lose  their  place; 
It  scarcely  would  bear  the  most  critical  test, 
Yet  of  all  correspondence  I  hold  it  the  best, 
For    it    ends — ah,    in    love    it    was    written    all 

through : 
"  Remember,  my  boy,  that  I'm  praying  for  you." 

"  Remember,  my  boy  " — oh,  an  old  boy  am  I, 
With  a  head  that  shines  back  to  the  laugh  of  the 

sky, 

But  to  her  I'm  "  my  boy,"  and  I  always  will  be, 
Till  the  white  angel  steps  'twixt  my  mother  and 

me, 

And  longer — the  love  that  has  guarded  my  way 
I  know  will  not  cease  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
But  will  whisper  me  still  from  the  infinite  blue, 
"  Remember,  my  boy,  that  I'm  praying  for  you." 


174  "J'Jtf  PRAYING   FOR    YOU." 

"  I'm  praying  for  you  " — God  knows  we  all  need 
That  some  heart  of  love  to  the  Father  shall  plead, 
For  our  feet  will  but  stumble  on  life's  rugged 

way, 

And  we  frequently  find  that  we're  sadly  astray. 
We  say  to  our  spirits,  "  Be  brave  and  press  on," 
But  the  spirit  will  faint  and  the  soul  will  grow 

wan; 
And  then  comes  the  message,  our  strength  to 

renew: 
"  Remember,  my  boy,  that  I'm  praying  for  you." 

Remember!     Oh,  mother,  I  could  not  forget. 
Still  the  dear,  loving  message  my  lashes  will  wet, 
As  I  read  it  here  written  in  old-fashioned  hand 
In  the  quaint  little  letter  that  lies  on  my  stand; 
And  in  fancy  I  see  you,  as  often  of  old, 
When  love  kissed  your  face  into  beauty  untold, 
As  you  knelt  by  my  cot — With  eyes  strangely 

dim, 
Your  boy  does  remember  you're  praying  for  him. 


THE    OLD,    OLD   SONG.  175 


THE   OLD,   OLD   SONG. 

T  T  ERE  is  a  song  that  no  one  sings; 

•*•         Here  are  the  words  that  no  one  knows. 

Out  of  the  breath  of  a  thousand  springs, 

Out  of  the  chill  of  a  thousand  snows, 
Cometh  the  song  that  I  sing  to-day, 
A  song  that  is  new  and  is  old  alway: 

A  little  joy,  a  little  woe, 

An  unseen  path  we  blindly  go, 

A  little  time  for  weeping, 

A  little  hour  to  walk  or  creep, 
A  little  faith  but  half  to  keep — 

And  then  there  comes  the  sleeping. 


1 76  THE    OLD,    OLD   SONG. 

A  song  that  echoes  down  the  years; 

A  song  as  old  as  time  is  old; 
A  song  we  hear  with  falling  tears, 

While  heads  turn  gray  and  hearts  grow  cold; 
The  old,  old  song,  the  song  of  life, 
A  chant  from  out  a  vale  of  strife: 

A  little  joy,  a  little  woe, 

An  unseen  path  we  blindly  go, 

A  little  time  for  weeping, 

A  little  hour  to  walk  or  creep, 
A  little  faith  but  half  to  keep— 

And  then  the  final  sleeping. 


OF  THE 


1    UNIVERSITY  1 


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